PRESENTED  TO 


THE  ENGLISH  LIBRARY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
R.  BENNETT  WEAVER 


AN 

CGI 

INTRODUCTION 


TO   THE   STl'DV    <  >K 


ROBERT   BROWNING'S   POETRY. 


BY 


HIRAM   CORSON,   LL.D., 

PROFESSOR  OF  RHETORIC  AND  ENGLISH  LITERATI-RE  IN  THE 
CORNELL  UNIVERSITY. 


"  Subtlest  Asseftor  of  the  Soul  in  song." 


BOSTON: 

D.   C.    HEATH    &   CO.,    PUBLISHERS. 
1889. 


Copyright,  i8Sb, 
BY  HIRAM  CORSON. 


J.  S.  GUSHING  &  Co.,  PRINTERS,  BOSTON. 


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"  Quanta  subtilitate  ipsa  corda  hominum  reserat,  intimos  mentis  recessus 
explorat,  varies  animi  motus  perscrutatur.  Quod  ad  tragcediam  antiquiorem 
attinet,  interpretatus  est,  uti  nostis  omnes,  non  modo  /Eschylum  quo  nemo 
sublimior,  sed  etiam  Euripidem  quo  nemo  humanior;  quo  fit  ut  etiam  illos  qui 
Graece  nesciunt,  misericordia  tangat  Alcestis,  terrore  tangat  Hercules.  Recen- 
tiora  argumenta  tragica  cum  lyrico  quodam  scribendi  genere  coniunxit,  duas 
Musas  et  Melpomenen  et  Euterpen  simul  veneratus.  Musicae  miracula  quis 
dignius  cecinit  ?  Pictoris  Florentini  sine  fraude  vitam  quasi  inter  crepuscula 
vesperascentem  coloribus  quam  vividis  depinxit.  Vesperi  quotiens,  dum  foco 
adsidemus,  hoc  iubente  resurgit  Italia.  Vesperi  nuper,  dum  huius  idyllia  forte 
meditabar,  Cami  inter  arundines  mihi  videbar  vocem  magnam  audire  claman- 
tis,  Uav  6  ptyas  ov  rtOvijKtv.  Vivit  adhuc  Pan  ipse,  cum  Marathonis  memoria 
et  Pheidippidis  velocitate  immortali  consociatus."  —  Eulogium  pronounced 
by  Mr.  J.  E.  Sandys,  Public  Oralor  at  the  University  of  Cambridge,  on  pre- 
senting Mr.  Bro-M ning  for  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws,  June  10, 
1879. 


PREFACE. 


THE  purpose  of  the  present  volume  is  to  afford  some  aid 
and  guidance  in  the  study  of  Robert  Browning's  Poetry, 
which,  being  the  most  complexly  subjective  of  all  English  poetry, 
is,  for  that  reason  alone,  the  most  difficult.  And  then  the  poet's 
favorite  art- form,  the  dramatic,  or,  rather,  psychologic,  mono- 
logue, which  is  quite  original  with  himself,  and  peculiarly  adapted 
to  the  constitution  of  his  genius  and  to  the  revelation  of  them- 
selves by  the  several  "  dramatis  personae,"  presents  certain  struc- 
tural difficulties,  but  difficulties  which,  with  an  increased  familiar- 
ity, grow  less  and  less.  The  exposition  presented  in  the  Intro- 
duction, of  its  constitution  and  skilful  management,  and  the 
Arguments  given  of  the  several  poems  included  in  the  volume, 
will,  it  is  hoped,  reduce,  if  not  altogether  remove,  the  difficulties 
of  this  kind.  In  the  same  section  of  the  Introduction,  certain 
peculiarities  of  the  poet's  diction,  which  sometimes  give  a  check 
to  the  reader's  understanding  of  a  passage,  are  presented  and 
illustrated. 

I  think  it  not  necessary  to  offer  any  apology  for  my  going 
all  the  way  back  to  Chaucer,  and  noting  the  Ebb  and  Flow  in 
English  Poetry  down  to  the  present  time,  of  the  spirituality 
which  constitutes  the  real  life  of  poetry,  and  which  should,  as 
far  as  possible,  be  brought  to  the  consciousness  and  appreciation 
of  students.  What  I  mean  by  spirituality  is  explained  in  my 


vi  PREFACE. 

treatment  of  the  subject.  The  degree  to  which  poetry  is  quick- 
ened with  it  should  always  enter  into  an  estimate  of  its  absolute 
worth.  It  is  that,  indeed,  which  constitutes  its  absolute  worth. 
The  weight  of  thought  conveyed,  whatever  that  be,  will  not  com- 
pensate for  the  absence  of  it. 

The  study  of  poetry,  in  our  institutions  of  learning,  so  far  as 
I  have  taken  note  of  it,  and  the  education  induced  thereby, 
are  almost  purely  intellectual.  The  student's  spiritual  nature 
is  left  to  take  care  of  itself  ;  and  the  consequence  is  that  he 
becomes,  at  best,  only  a  thinking  and  analyzing  machine. 

The  spiritual  claims  of  the  study  of  poetry  are  especially 
demanded  in  the  case  of  Browning's  poetry.  Browning  is  gen- 
erally and  truly  regarded  as  the  most  intellectual  of  poets. 
No  poetry  in  English  literature,  or  in  any  literature,  is  more 
charged  with  discursive  thought  than  his.  But  he  is,  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  spiritual  and  transcendental  of  poets,  the  "  subtlest 
assertor  of  the  Soul  in  Song."  His  thought  is  never  an  end  to 
itself,  but  is  always  subservient  to  an  ulterior  spiritual  end  — 
always  directed  towards  "a  presentment  of  the  correspond- 
ency of  the  universe  to  Deity,  of  the  natural  to  the  spirit- 
ual, and  of  the  actual  to  the  ideal  "  ;  and  it  is  all-important 
that  students  should  be  awakened,  and  made,  as  far  as  possi- 
ble, responsive  to  this  spiritual  end. 

The  sections  of  the  Introduction  on  Personality  and  Art  were 
read  before  the  Browning  Society  of  London,  in  June,  1882.  I 
have  seen  no  reason  for  changing  or  modifying,  in  any  respect, 
the  views  therein  expressed. 

The  idea  of  personality  as  a  quickening,  regenerating  power, 
and  the  idea  of  art  as  an  intermediate  agency  of  personality, 
are,  perhaps,  the  most  reiterated  (implicitly,  not  explicitly)  in 


PREFACE.  vii 

Browning's  poetry,  and  lead  up  to  the  dominant  idea  of  Chris- 
tianity, the  idea  of  a  Divine  Personality ;  the  idea  that  the  soul, 
to  use  an  expression  from  his  earliest  poem,  '  Pauline,1  must 
"  rest  beneath  some  better  essence  than  itself  in  weakness." 

The  notes  to  the  poems  will  be  found,  I  trust,  to  cover  all 
points  and  features  of  the  text  which  require  explanation  and 
elucidation.  I  have  not,  at  any  rate,  wittingly  passed  by  any  real 
difficulties.  Whether  my  explanations  and  interpretations  will 
in  all  cases  be  acceptable,  remains  to  be  seen. 

HIRAM   CORSON. 

CASCADILLA  COTTAGE,  ITHACA,  N.Y. 
September,  1886. 


NOTE  TO   THE   SECOND   EDITION. 

IN  this  edition,  several   errors  of  the  first   have   been  corrected. 
For  the  notes  on  "fifty-part  canon,"  p.  156,  and  "a  certain  precious 

little  tablet,"  p.  232,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Browning. 

H.  C. 


NOTE   TO   THE   THIRD   EDITION. 

IN  this  edition  have  been  added,  '  A  Death  in  the  Desert,'  with 
argument,  notes,  and  commentary,  a  fac-simile  of  a  letter  from  the 
poet,  and  a  portrait  copied  from  a  photograph  (the  last  taken  of  him) 
which  he  gave  me  when  visiting  him  in  Venice,  a  month  before  his 
death. 

It  may  be  of  interest,  and  of  some  value,  to  many  students  of 
Browning's  poetry,  to  know  a  reply  he  made,  in  regard  to  the  ex- 
pression in  '  My  Last  Duchess,'  "  I  gave  commands ;  then  all  smiles 
stopped  together." 


viii  PREFACE. 

We  were  walking  up  and  down  the  great  hall  of  the  Palazzo  Rez- 
zonico,  when,  in  the  course  of  what  I  was  telling  him  about  the  study 
of  his  works  in  the  United  States,  I  alluded  to  the  divided  opinion 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  above  expression  in  'My  Last  Duchess,' 
some  understanding  that  the  commands  were  to  put  the  Duchess  to 
death,  and  others,  as  I  have  explained  the  expression  on  p.  87  of  this 
volume  (last  paragraph).  He  made  no  reply,  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  meditatively,  "Yes,  I  meant  that  the  commands  were  that 
she  should  be  put  to  death."  And  then,  after  a  pause,  he  added, 
with  a  characteristic  dash  of  expression,  and  as  if  the  thought  had 
just  started  in  his  mind,  "Or  he  might  have  had  her  shut  up  in  a 
convent."  This  was  to  me  very  significant.  When  he  wrote  the 
expression,  "  I  gave  commands,"  etc.,  he  may  not  have  thought  defi- 
nitely what  the  commands  were,  more  than  that  they  put  a  stop  to 
the  smiles  of  the  sweet  Duchess,  which  provoked  the  contemptible 
jealousy  of  the  Duke.  This  was  all  his  art  purpose  required,  and  his 
mind  did  not  go  beyond  it.  I  thought  how  many  vain  discussions 
take  place  in  Browning  Clubs,  about  little  points  which  are  outside 
of  the  range  of  the  artistic  motive  of  a  composition,  and  how  many 
minds  are  occupied  with  anything  and  everything  under  the  sun, 
except  the  one  thing  needful  (the  artistic  or  spiritual  motive),  the 
result  being  "  as  if  one  should  be  ignorant  of  nothing  concerning  the 

scent  of  violets,  except  the  scent  itself." 

H.  C. 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE v-vii 

INTRODUCTION 3-14! 

I.   The  Spiritual  Ebb  and  Flow  exhibited  in  English  Poetry  from 

Chaucer  to  Tennyson  and  Browning 3-31 

II.   The  Idea  of  Personality  and  of  Art  as  an  intermediate  agency 

of  Personality,  as  embodied  in  Browning's  Poetry  ....  32-71 

III.  Browning's  Obscurity 72-90 

IV.  Browning's  Verse 91-98 

V.   Arguments  of  the  Poems 99-141 


Wanting  is— What? 99 

My  Star 99 

The  Flight  of  the  Duchess      ....  100 

The  Last  Ride  Together 100 

By  the  Fireside 101 

Prospice 102 

Amphibian *....  103 

James  Lee's  Wife 103 

A  Tale 109 

Confessions 109 

Respectability 109 

Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad      ...  no 

Home-Thoughts  from  the  Sea      .     .     .  in 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence in 

Pictor  Ignotus 112 

Andrea  del  Sarto 113 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 116 

A  Face 119 


The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb   ....  119 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's 121 

Abt  Vogler 122 

Touch  him  ne'er  so  lightly 126 

Memorabilia 127 

How  it  strikes  a  Contemporary   .     .     .  127 

Transcendentalism 128 

Apparent  Failure 129 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 130 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 134 

An  Epistle  containing  the  Strange  Medi- 
cal Experience  of  Karshish,  the  Arab 

Physician 134 

A  Martyr's  Epitaph 137 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister     .     .  137 

Holy-Cross  Day 140 

Saul 140 

A  Death  in  the  Desert 141 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS 


PAGES 
H5-333 


Wanting  is  —  What? 145 

My  Star 146 

The  Flight  of  the  Duchess 146 

The  Last  Ride  Together 175 

By  the  Fireside 180 

Prospice 192 

Amphibian 193 

James  Lee's  Wife 197 

A  Tale 212 

Confessions 216 

Respectability 218 

Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad       .     .     .  219 

Home-Thoughts  from  the  Sea      .     .     .  220 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence 220 

Pictor  Ignotus 236 

Andrea  del  Sarto 238 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 248 

A  Face 261 


The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb   ....  262 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's 267 

Abt  Vogler 270 

Touch  him  ne'er  so  lightly 275 

Memorabilia 276 

How  it  strikes  a  Contemporary    .     .     .  277 

Transcendentalism 280 

Apparent  Failure 283 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 286 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 294 

An  Epistle  containing  the  Strange  Medi- 
cal Experience  of  Karshish,  the  Arab 

Physician 299 

A  Martyr's  Epitaph 310 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister      .     .  310 

Holy-Cross  Day 313 

Saul ?io 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 333 

A  LIST  OF  CRITICISMS  OF  BROWNING'S  WORKS 333 


INTRODUCTION. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I. 

THE    SPIRITUAL    EBB    AND    FLOW    EXHIBITED    IN    ENGLISH 

POETRY   FROM    CHAUCER    TO    TENNYSON 

AND    BROWNING. 

LITERATURE,  in  its  most  restricted  art-sense,  is  an  expres- 
sion in  letters  of  the  life  of  the  spirit  of  man  co-operating 
with  the  intellect.  Without  the  co-operation  of  the  spiritual 
man,  the  intellect  produces  only  thought ;  and  pure  thought, 
whatever  be  the  subject  with  which  it  deals,  is  not  regarded  as 
literature,  in  its  strict  sense.  For  example,  Euclid's  '  Elements,' 
Newton's  '  Principia,'  Spinoza's  '  Ethica,'  and  Kant's  '  Critique  of 
the  Pure  Reason,'  do  not  properly  belong  to  literature.  (By  the 
"spiritual"  I  would  be  understood  to  mean  the  whole  domain  of 
the  emotional,  the  susceptible  or  impressible,  the  sympathetic, 
the  intuitive ;  in  short,  that  mysterious  something  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  man  by  and  through  which  he  holds  relationship  with  the 
essential  spirit  of  things,  as  opposed  to  the  phenomenal  of  which 
the  senses  take  cognizance.) 

The  term  literature  is  sometimes  extended  in  meaning  (and  it 
may  be  so  extended),  to  include  all  that  has  been  committed  to 
letters,  on  all  subjects.  There  is  no  objection  to  such  extension 
in  ordinary  speech,  no  more  than  there  is  to  that  of  the  significa- 
tion of  the  word  "beauty"  to  what  is  purely  abstract.  We  speak, 
for  example,  of  the  beauty  of  a  mathematical  demonstration  ;  but 
beauty,  in  its  strictest  sense,  is  that  which  appeals  to  the  spiritual 
nature,  and  must,  therefore,  be  concrete,  personal,  not  abstract. 
Art  beauty  is  the  embodiment,  adequate,  effective  embodiment, 


4  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

of  co-operative  intellect  and  spirit,  — "  the  accommodation,"  in 
Bacon's  words,  "of  the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind." 

It  follows  that  the  relative  merit  and  importance  of  different 
periods  of  a  literature  should  be  determined  by  the  relative  degrees 
of  spirituality  which  these  different  periods  exhibit.  The  intel- 
lectual power  of  two  or  more  periods,  as  exhibited  in  their  litera- 
tures, may  show  no  marked  difference,  while  the  spiritual  vitality 
of  these  same  periods  may  very  distinctly  differ.  And  if  it  be 
admitted  that  literature  proper  is  the  product  of  co-operative 
intellect  and  spirit  (the  latter  being  always  an  indispensable  factor, 
though  there  can  be  no  high  order  of  literature  that  is  not  strongly 
articulated,  that  is  not  well  freighted,  with  thought) ,  it  follows  that 
the  periods  of  a  literature  should  be  determined  by  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  spiritual  life  which  they  severally  register,  rather  than  by 
any  other  considerations.  There  are  periods  which  are  character- 
ized by  a  "  blindness  of  heart,"  an  inactive,  quiescent  condition  of 
the  spirit,  by  which  the  intellect  is  more  or  less  divorced  from  the 
essential,  the  eternal,  and  it  directs  itself  to  the  shows  of  things. 
Such  periods  may  embody  in  their  literatures  a  large  amount  of 
thought,  —  thought  which  is  conversant  with  the  externality  of 
things  ;  but  that  of  itself  will  not  constitute  a  noble  literature,  how- 
ever perfect  the  forms  in  which  it  may  be  embodied,  and  the  gen- 
eral sense  of  the  civilized  world,  independently  of  any  theories  of 
literature,  will  not  regard  such  a  literature  as  noble.  It  is  made 
up  of  what  must  be,  in  time,  superseded ;  it  has  not  a  sufficiently 
large  element  of  the  essential,  the  eternal,  which  can  be  reached 
only  through  the  assimilating  life  of  the  spirit.  The  spirit  may  be 
so  "  cabined,  cribbed,  confined  "  as  not  to  come  to  any  conscious- 
ness of  itself;  or  it  may  be  so  set  free  as  to  go  forth  and  recognize 
its  kinship,  respond  to  the  spiritual  world  outside  of  itself,  and,  by 
so  responding,  know  what  merely  intellectual  philosophers  call  the 
unknowable. 

To  turn  now  to  the  line  of  English  poets  who  may  be  said  to 
have  passed  the  torch  of  spiritual  life,  from  lifted  hand  to  hand, 
along  the  generations.  And  first  is 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  5 

"  the  morning  star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  heard  below : 

"  Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still." 

Chaucer  exhibits,  in  a  high  degree,  this  life  of  the  spirit,  and  it 
is  the  secret  of  the  charm  which  his  poetry  possesses  for  us  after  a 
lapse  of  five  hundred  years.  It  vitalizes,  warms,  fuses,  and  imparts 
a  lightsomeness  to  his  verse ;  it  creeps  and  kindles  beneath  the 
tissues  of  his  thought.  When  we  compare  Dryden's  moderniza- 
tions of  Chaucer  with  the  originals,  we  see  the  difference  between 
the  verse  of  a  poet,  with  a  healthy  vitality  of  spirit,  and,  through 
that  healthy  vitality  of  spirit,  having  secret  dealings  with  things, 
and  verse  which  is  largely  the  product  of  the  rhetorical  or  literary 
faculty.  We  do  not  feel,  when  reading  the  latter,  that  any  uncon- 
scious might  co-operated  with  the  conscious  powers  of  the  writer. 
But  we  do  feel  this  when  we  read  Chaucer's  verse. 

All  of  the  Canterbury  Tales  have  originals  or  analogues,  most  of 
which  have  been  reproduced  by  the  London  Chaucer  Society. 
Not  one  of  the  tales  is  of  Chaucer's  own  invention.  And  yet  they 
may  all  be  said  to  be  original,  in  the  truest,  deepest  sense  of  the 
word.  They  have  been  vitalized  from  the  poet's  own  soul.  He 
has  infused  his  own  personality,  his  own  spirit-life,  into  his  orig- 
inals ;  he  has  "  created  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death."  It  is  this 
infused  vitality  which  will  constitute  the  charm  of  the  Canterbury 
Tales  for  all  generations  of  English  speaking  and  English  reading 
people.  This  life  of  the  spirit,  of  which  I  am  speaking,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  intellect,  is  felt,  though  much  less  distinctly,  in  a 
contemporary  work,  'The  Vision  of  William  concerning  Piers  the 
Plowman.'  What  the  author  calls  "  kind  wit"  that  is,  "  natural 
intelligence,"  has,  generally,  the  ascendency.  We  meet,  however, 
with  powerful  passages,  wherein  the  thoughts  are  aglow  with  the 
warmth  from  the  writer's  inner  spirit.  He  shows  at  times  the 
moral  indignation  of  a  Hebrew  prophet. 


6  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

The  '  Confessio  Amantis '  of  John  Gower,  another  contempo- 
rary work,  exhibits  comparatively  little  of  the  life  of  the  spirit, 
either  in  its  verse  or  in  its  thought.  The  thought  rarely  passes 
the  limit  of  natural  intelligence.  The  stories,  which  the  poet 
drew  from  the  '  Gesta  Romanorum '  and  numerous  other  sources, 
can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  born  again.  The  verse  is 
smooth  and  fluent,  but  the  reader  feels  it  to  be  the  product  of 
literary  skill.  It  wants  what  can  be  imparted  only  by  an  uncon- 
scious might  back  of  the  consciously  active  and  trained  powers. 
It  is  this  unconscious  might  which  John  Keats,  in  his  '  Sleep  and 
Poetry,'  speaks  of  as  "  might  half  slumbering  on  its  own  right  arm," 
and  which  every  reader,  with  the  requisite  susceptibility,  can  always 
detect  in  the  verse  of  a  true  poet. 

In  the  interval  between  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  this  life  of  the 
spirit  is  not  distinctly  marked  in  any  of  its  authors,  not  excepting 
even  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  whose  sad  fate  gave  a  facti- 
tious interest  to  his  writings.  It  is  more  noticeable  in  Thomas 
Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst's  '  Induction  to  the  Mirror  for  Magis- 
trates,' which,  in  the  words  of  Hallam,  "  forms  a  link  which  unites 
the  school  of  Chaucer  and  Lydgate  to  the  '  Faerie  Queene.' " 

The  Rev.  James  Byrne,  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  his  lecture 
on  '  The  Influence  of  National  Character  on  English  Literature,' 
remarks  of  Spenser  :  "  After  that  dark  period  which  separated  him 
from  Chaucer,  after  all  the  desolation  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and 
all  the  deep  trials  of  the  Reformation,  he  rose  on  England  as  if,  to 
use  an  image  of  his  own, 

"  '  At  last  the  golden  orientall  gate 
Of  greatest  heaven  gan  to  open  fayre, 
And  Phoebus,  fresh  as  brydegrome  to  his  mate, 
Came  dauncing  forth,  shaking  his  deawie  hayre, 
And  hurled  his  glistering  beams  through  gloomy  ayre.' 

"  That  baptism  of  blood  and  fire  through  which  England  passed 
at  the  Reformation,  raised  both  Protestant  and  Catholic  to  a  new- 
ness of  life.  That  mighty  working  of  heart  and  mind  with  which 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  7 

the  nation  then  heaved  throughout,  went  through  every  man  and 
woman,  and  tried  what  manner  of  spirits  they  were  of.  What  a 
preparation  was  this  for  that  period  of  our  literature  in  which  man, 
the  great  actor  of  the  drama  of  life,  was  about  to  appear  on  the 
stage  !  It  was  to  be  expected  that  the  drama  should  then  start 
into  life,  and  that  human  character  should  speak  from  the  stage 
with  a  depth  of  life  never  known  before ;  but  who  could  have 
imagined  Shakespeare  ?  " 

And  what  a  new  music  burst  upon  the  world  in  Spenser's  verse  ! 
His  noble  stanza,  so  admirably  adapted  to  pictorial  effect,  has  since 
been  used  by  some  of  the  greatest  poets  of  the  literature,  Thomson, 
Scott,  Wordsworth,  Byron,  Keats,  Shelley,  and  numerous  others ; 
but  none  of  them,  except  in  rare  instances,  have  drawn  the  music 
out  of  it  which  Spenser  drew. 

Professor  Goldwin  Smith  well  remarks,  in  his  article  on  Mark 
Pattison's  Milton,  "  The  great  growths  of  poetry  have  coincided 
with  the  great  bursts  of  national  life,  and  the  great  bursts  of  national 
life  have  hitherto  been  generally  periods  of  controversy  and  struggle. 
Art  itself,  in  its  highest  forms,  has  been  the  expression  of  faith. 
We  have  now  people  who  profess  to  cultivate  art  for  its  own  sake ; 
but  they  have  hardly  produced  anything  which  the  world  accepts 
as  great,  though  they  have  supplied  some  subjects  for  Punch" 

Spenser  who,  of  all  the  great  English  poets,  is  regarded  by  some 
critics  as  the  most  remote  from  real  life,  and  the  least  reflecting 
his  age,  is,  nevertheless,  filled  with  the  spirit  of  his  age  —  its  chiv- 
alric,  romantic,  patriotic,  moral,  and  religious  spirit.  When  he  began 
to  write,  the  nation  had  just  passed  through  the  fiery  furnace  of  a 
religious  persecution,  and  was  rejoicing  in  its  deliverance  from  the 
papistical  rule  of  Mary.  The  devotion  to  the  new  queen  with 
which  it  was  inspired  was  grateful,  generous,  enthusiastic,  and 
even  romantic.  This  devotion  Spenser's  great  poem  everywhere 
reflects,  and  it  has  been  justly  pronounced  to  be  the  best  exponent 
of  the  subtleties  of  that  Calvinism  which  was  the  aristocratic  form 
of  Protestantism  at  that  time  in  both  France  and  England. 

The  renewed  spiritual  life  which  set  in  so  strongly  with  Spenser, 


8  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

reached  its  springtide  in  Shakespeare.  It  was  the  secret  of  that 
sense  of  moral  proportion  which  pervades  his  plays.  Moral  pro- 
portion cannot  be  secured  through  the  laws  of  the  ancients,  or 
through  any  formulated  theory  of  art.  It  was,  I  am  assured, 
through  his  deep  and  sensitive  spirit-life  that  Shakespeare  felt  the 
universal  spirit  and  constitution  of  the  world  as  fully,  perhaps,  as 
the  human  soul,  in  this  life,  is  capable  of  feeling  it.  Through  it 
he  took  cognizance  of  the  workings  of  nature,  and  of  the  life  of 
man,  by  direct  assimilation  of  their  hidden  principles,  —  principles 
which  cannot  be  reached  through  an  observation,  by  the  natural 
intelligence,  of  the  phenomenal.  He  thus  became  possessed  of 
a  knowledge,  or  rather  wisdom,  far  beyond  his  conscious  observa- 
tion and  objective  experience. 

Shakespeare  may  be  regarded  as  the  first  and  the  last  great 
artistic  physiologist  or  natural  historian  of  the  passions ;  and  he 
was  this  by  virtue  of  the  life  of  the  spirit,  which  enabled  him  to 
reproduce  sympathetically  the  whole  range  of  human  passion 
within  himself.  He  was  the  first  of  the  world's  dramatists  that 
exhibited  the  passions  in  their  evolutions,  and  in  their  subtlest 
complications.  And  the  moral  proportion  he  preserved  in  exhibit- 
ing the  complex  and  often  wild  play  of  the  passions  must  have 
been  largely  due  to  the  harmony  of  his  soul  with  the  constitution 
of  things.  What  the  Restoration  dramatists  regarded  or  under- 
stood as  moral  proportion,  was  not  moral  proportion  at  all,  but  a 
proportion  fashioned  according  to  merely  conventional  ideas  of 
justice.  Shakespeare's  moral  proportion  appeared  to  them,  in  their 
low  spiritual  condition,  a  moral  chaos,  which  they  set  about  con- 
verting, in  some  of  his  great  plays,  into  a  cosmos ;  and  a  sad 
muss,  if  not  a  ridiculous  muss,  they  made  of  it.  Signal  examples 
of  this  are  the  rifacimenti  of  the  Tempest  by  Dryden  and  Dave- 
nant,  the  King  Lear  by  Tate,  and  the  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
(entitled  '  All  for  Love,  or  the  World  well  Lost ')  by  Dryden. 

In  Milton,  though  there  is  a  noticeable,  an  even  distinctly  marked, 
reduction  of  the  life  of  the  spirit  (in  the  sense  in  which  I  have  been 
using  these  words)  exhibited  by  Shakespeare,  it  is  still  very  strong 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  9 

and  efficient,  and  continues  uninfluenced  by  the  malign  atmos- 
phere around  him  the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life,  which  were 
lived  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  Within  that  period  he  wrote  the 
'  Paradise  Lost,'  '  Paradise  Regained,'  and  '  Samson  Agonistes.' 
"  Milton,"  says  Emerson,  "  was  the  stair  or  high  table-land  to  let 
down  the  English  genius  from  the  summits  of  Shakespeare." 

"  These  heights  could  not  be  maintained.  They  were  followed 
by  a  meanness  and  a  descent  of  the  mind  into  lower  levels ;  the 
loss  of  wings  ;  no  high  speculation.  Locke,  to  whom  the  meaning 
of  ideas  was  unknown,  became  the  type  of  philosophy,  and  his 
"  understanding  "  the  measure,  in  all  nations,  of  the  English  intel- 
lect. His  countrymen  forsook  the  lofty  sides  of  Parnassus,  on 
which  they  had  once  walked  with  echoing  steps,  and  disused  the 
studies  once  so  beloved ;  the  powers  of  thought  fell  into  neglect." 

The  highest  powers  of  thought  cannot  be  realized  without  the 
life  of  the  spirit.  It  is  this,  as  I  have  already  said,  which  has 
been  the  glory  of  the  greatest  thinkers  since  the  world  began ;  not 
their  intellects,  but  the  co-operating,  unconscious  power  immanent 
in  their  intellects. 

During  the  Restoration  period,  and  later,  spiritual  life  was  at  its 
very  lowest  ebb.  I  mean,  spiritual  life  as  exhibited  in  the  poetic 
and  dramatic  literature  of  the  time,  whose  poisoned  fountain-head 
was  the  dissolute  court  of  Charles  II.  All  the  slops  of  that  court 
went  into  the  drama,  all  the  sentina  reipublicae,  the  bilge  water  of 
the  ship  of  state.  The  dramatic  writers  of  the  time,  to  use  the 
words  of  St.  Paul  in  his  letter  to  the  Ephesians,  "  walked  in  the 
vanity  of  their  mind ;  having  the  understanding  darkened,  being 
alienated  from  the  life  of  God  through  the  ignorance  that  was  in 
them  because  of  the  blindness  of  their  heart ;  who,  being  past  feel- 
ing, gave  themselves  over  unto  lasciviousness,  to  work  all  unclean- 
ness  with  greediness."  The  age,  as  Emerson  says,  had  no  live, 
distinct,  actuating  convictions.  It  was  in  even  worse  than  a  nega- 
tive condition.  As  represented  by  its  drama  and  poetry,  it  may 
almost  be  said  to  have  repudiated  the  moral  sentiment.  A  spir- 
itual disease  affected  the  upper  classes,  which  continued  down  into 


I0  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

the  reign  of  the  Georges.  There  appears  to  have  been  but  little 
belief  in  the  impulse  which  the  heart  imparts  to  the  intellect,  or 
that  the  latter  draws  greatness  from  the  inspiration  of  the  former. 
There  was  a  time  in  the  history  of  the  Jews  in  which,  it  is  recorded, 
'*  there  was  no  open  vision."  It  can  be  said,  emphatically,  that  in 
the  time  of  Charles  II.  there  was  no  open  vision.  And  yet  that 
besotted,  that  spiritually  dark  age,  which  was  afflicted  with  pneu- 
matophobia,  flattered  itself  that  there  had  never  been  an  age  so 
flooded  with  light.  The  great  age  of  Elizabeth  (which  designation 
I  would  apply  to  the  period  of  fifty  years  or  more,  from  1575  to 
1625,  or  somewhat  later),  in  which  the  human  faculties,  in  their 
whole  range,  both  intellectual  and  spiritual,  reached  such  a  degree 
of  expansion  as  they  had  never  before  reached  in  the  history  of 
the  world,  —  that  great  age,  I  say,  the  age  of  Spenser,  Sidney,  Mar- 
lowe, Shakespeare,  Bacon,  Raleigh,  Hooker,  Ben  Jonson,  Beau- 
mont, Fletcher,  Chapman,  Dekker,  Ford,  Herbert,  Heywood, 
Massinger  (and  this  list  of  great  names  might  be  continued), — 
that  great  age,  I  say,  was  regarded  by  the  men  of  the  Restoration 
period  as  barbarous  in  comparison  with  their  own.  But  beneath 
all,  still  lay  the  restorative  elements  of  the  English  character,  which 
were  to  reassert  themselves  and  usher  in  a  new  era  of  literary  pro- 
ductiveness, the  greatest  since  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  embodying 
the  highest  ideals  of  life  to  which  the  race  has  yet  attained.  We 
can  account,  to  some  extent,  for  this  interregnum  of  spiritual  life, 
but  only  to  some  extent.  The  brutal  heartlessness  and  licentious- 
ness of  the  court  which  the  exiled  Charles  brought  back  with  hirr^ 
and  the  release  from  Puritan  restraint,  explain  partly  the  state  of 
things,  or  rather  the  degree  to  which  the  state  of  things  was  pushed. 
In  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  or  somewhat  earlier,  the 
rise  of  the  spiritual  tide  is  distinctly  observable.  We  see  a  reaction 
setting  in  against  the  soulless  poetry  which  culminated  in  Alexander 
Pope,  whose  '  Rape  of  the  Lock '  is  the  masterpiece  of  that  poetry. 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  most  brilliant  society-poem  in  the  literature.  De 
Quincey  pronounces  it  to  be,  though  somewhat  extravagantly,  "  the 
most  exquisite  monument  of  playful  fancy  that  universal  literature 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  !  i 

offers."  Bishop  Warburton,  one  of  the  great  critical  authorities  of 
the  age,  believed  in  the  infallibility  of  Pope,  if  not  of  the  Pope. 

To  notice  but  a  few  of  the  influences  at  work  :  Thomson  sang  of 
the  Seasons,  and  invited  attention  to  the  beauties  of  the  natural 
world,  to  which  the  previous  generation  had  been  blind  and  indif- 
ferent. Bishop  Percy  published  his  '  Reliques  of  Ancient  English 
Poetry,'  thus  awakening  a  new  interest  in  the  old  ballads  which  had 
sprung  from  the  heart  of  the  people,  and  contributing  much  to  free 
poetry  from  the  yoke  of  the  conventional  and  the  artificial,  and  to 
work  a  revival  of  natural  unaffected  feeling.  Thomas  Tyrwhitt 
edited  in  a  scholarly  and  appreciative  manner,  the  Canterbury 
Tales  of  Chaucer.  James  McPherson  published  what  he  claimed 
to  be  translations  from  the  poems  of  Ossian,  the  son  of  Fingal. 
Whether  genuine  or  not,  these  poems  indicated  the  tendency  of 
the  time.  In  Scotland,  the  old  ballad  spirit,  which  had  continued 
to  exist  with  a  vigor  but  little  abated  by  the  influence  of  the  artifi- 
cial, mechanical  school  of  poetry,  was  gathered  up  and  intensified 
in  the  songs  of  him  "  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy,  following  his 
plow,  along  the  mountain-side,"  and  who  is  entitled  to  a  high  rank 
among  the  poetical  reformers  of  the  age. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  great  literary  dictator  in  Percy's  day, 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  should  treat  the  old  ballads  with  ridicule. 
The  good  man  had  been  trained  in  a  different  school  of  poetry, 
and  could  not  in  his  old  age  yield  to  the  reactionary  movement. 
Bishop  Warburton,  who  ranked  next  to  Johnson  in  literary  authority, 
had  nothing  but  sneering  contempt  to  bestow  upon  the  old  ballads, 
and  this  feeling  was  shared  by  many  others  in  the  foremost  ranks 
of  literature  and  criticism.  But  in  the  face  of  all  opposition,  and 
aided  by  the  yearning  for  literary  liberty  that  was  abroad,  the  old 
ballads  grew  more  and  more  into  favor.  The  influence  of  this  folk- 
lore was  not  confined  to  England.  It  extended  across  the  sea, 
and  swayed  the  genius  of  such  poets  as  Burger  and  Goethe  and 
Schiller. 

Along  with  the  poetical  revival  in  the  eighteenth  century,  came 
the  great  religious  revival  inaugurated  by  the  Wesleys  and  White- 


12  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

field ;  and  of  this  revival,  the  poetry  of  William  Cowper  was  a 
direct  product.  But  the  two  revivals  were  co-radical,  —  one  was  not 
derived  from  the  other.  The  long-suppressed  spiritual  elements 
of  the  nation  began  to  reassert  themselves  in  religion  and  in  poetry. 
The  Church  had  been  as  sound  asleep  as  the  Muses. 

Cowper  belongs  to  the  Whitefield  side  of  the  religious  revival, 
the  Evangelicals,  as  they  were  called  (those  that  remained  within 
the  Establishment).  In  his  poem  entitled  'Hope,'  he  vindicates 
the  memory  of  Whitefield  under  the  name  Leuconomus,  a  transla- 
tion into  Greek,  of  White  field.  It  was  his  conversion  to  Evangeli- 
cism  which  gave  him  his  inspiration  and  his  themes.  '  The  Task ' 
has  been  as  justly  called  the  poem  of  Methodism  as  the  'Paradise 
Lost '  has  been  called  the  epic  of  Puritanism.  In  it  we  are  pre- 
sented with  a  number  of  pictures  of  the  utterly  fossilized  con- 
dition of  the  clergy  of  the  day  in  the  Established  Church  (see 
especially  book  II.,  w.  326-832,  in  which  he  satirizes  the  clergy 
and  the  universities). 

Cowper  has  been  truly  characterized  by  Professor  Goldwin 
Smith,  as  "the  apostle  of  feeling  to  a  hard  age,  to  an  artificial 
age,  the  apostle  of  nature.  He  opened  beneath  the  arid  surface 
of  a  polished  but  soulless  society,  a  fountain  of  sentiment  which 
had  long  ceased  to  flow." 

The  greatest  things  in  this  world  are  often  done  by  those  who  do 
not  know  they  are  doing  them.  This  is  especially  true  of  William 
Cowper.  He  was  wholly  unaware  of  the  great  mission  he  was  ful- 
filling ;  his  contemporaries  were  wholly  unaware  of  it.  And  so 
temporal  are  the  world's  standards,  in  the  best  of  times,  that  spir- 
itual regenerators  are  not  generally  recognized  until  long  after 
they  have  passed  away,  when  the  results  of  what  they  did  are  fully 
ripe,  and  philosophers  begin  to  trace  the  original  impulses. 

"  Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly 

Down  to  towered  Camelot : 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  \$ 

And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  'Tis  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott." 

John  Burroughs,  in  his  inspiring  essay  on  Walt  Whitman  en- 
titled '  The  Flight  of  the  Eagle,'  quotes  the  following  sentence 
from  a  lecture  on  Burns,  delivered  by  "a  lecturer  from  over 
seas,"  whom  he  does  not  name  :  "  When  literature  becomes  dozy, 
respectable,  and  goes  in  the  smooth  grooves  of  fashion,  and 
copies  and  copies  again,  something  must  be  done ;  and  to  give 
life  to  that  dying  literature,  a  man  must  be  found  not  educated 
under  its  influence." 

Such  a  man  I  would  say  was  William  Cowper,  who,  in  his 
weakness,  was 

"  Strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vocation," 
and  who 

"  Testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  phrenzy  desolated, — 
Nor  man  nor  angel  satisfies  whom  only  God  created." 

John  Keats,  in  his  poem  entitled  '  Sleep  and  Poetry,'  has  well 
characterized  the  soulless  poetry  of  the  period  between  the  Res- 
toration and  the  poetical  revival  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  but  more  especially  of  the  Popian  period.  After  speak- 
ing of  the  greatness  of  his  favorite  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  period, 
he  continues  :  — 

"  Could  all  this  be  forgotten?    Yes,  a  schism 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 

His  glories :  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 

And  thought  it  Pegasus." 

(Alluding  to  the  rocking-horse  movement  of  the  Popian  verse.) 

"  Ah  dismal  soul'd! 

The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roll'd 
Its  gathering  waves —  ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 


j4  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

Bar'd  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 
Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 
The  morning  precious  :  beauty  was  awake  ! 
Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were  dead 
To  things  ye  knew  not  of,  — were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 
Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task : 
A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race  ! 
That  blasphenVd  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face, 
And  did  not  know  it,  —  no,  they  went  about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepid  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! " 

It  was  these  lines  that  raised  the  ire  of  Byron,  who  regarded 
them  as  an  irreverent  assault  upon  his  favorite  poet,  Pope.  In 
the  controversy  occasioned  by  the  Rev.  W.  L.  Bowles's  strictures 
on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Pope,  Byron  perversely  asks,  "  Where 
is  the  poetry  of  which  one-half  is  good  ?  Is  it  the  /Eneid  ?  Is  it 
Milton's?  Is  it  Dryden's?  Is  it  any  one's  except  Pope's  and 
Goldsmith's,  of  which  all  is  good?" 

In  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  spiritual  flow 
which,  as  I  have  said,  set  in  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  received  its  first  great  impulse  from  William  Cowper, 
reached  its  high  tide  in  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats, 
Southey,  and  Byron.  These  poets  were  all,  more  or  less,  influ- 
enced by  that  great  moral  convulsion,  the  French  revolution, 
which  stirred  men's  souls  to  their  deepest  depths,  induced  a  vast 
stimulation  of  the  meditative  faculties,  and  contributed  much 
toward  the  unfolding  of  the  ideas  "  on  man,  on  nature,  and  on 
human  life,"  which  have  since  so  vitalized  English  poetry.1 

1  "The  agitation,  the  frenzy,  the  sorrow  of  the  times,  reacted  upon  the 
human  intellect,  and  forced  men  into  meditation.  Their  own  nature  was 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  1 5 

Wordsworth  exhibited  in  his  poetry,  as  they  had  never  before 
been  exhibited,  the  permanent  absolute  relations  of  nature  to  the 
human  spirit,  interpreted  the  relations  between  the  elemental 
powers  of  creation  and  the  moral  life  of  man,  and  vindicated  the 
inalienable  birthright  of  the  lowliest  of  men  to  those  inward  "  ora- 
cles of  vital  deity  attesting  the  Hereafter."  Wordsworth's  poetry 
is,  in  fact,  so  far  as  it  bears  upon  the  natural  world,  a  protest 
against  the  association  theory  of  beauty  of  the  eighteenth  century 
—  a  theory  which  was  an  offshoot  of  the  philosophy  of  Locke,  well 
characterized  by  Macvicar,  in  his  '  Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful ' 
(Introd.,  pp.  xv.,  xvi),  as  "an  ingenious  hypothesis  for  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  the  philosophy  then  popular  did 
not  admit,  as  the  ground  of  any  knowledge,  anything  higher  than 
self-repetition  and  the  transformation  of  sensations." 

Coleridge's  '  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner '  is  an  imaginative 
expression  of  that  divine  love  which  embraces  all  creatures,  from 
the  highest  to  the  lowest,  of  the  consequences  of  the  severance  ot 
man's  soul  from  this  animating  principle  of  the  universe,  and  of 
those  spiritual  threshings  by  and  through  which  it  is  brought  again 
under  its  blessed  influence.  In  his  '  Cristabel '  he  has  exhibited 
the  dark  principle  of  evil,  lurking  within  the  good,  and  ever  strug- 
gling with  it.  We  read  it  in  the  spell  the  wicked  witch  Geraldine 
works  upon  her  innocent  and  unsuspecting  protector ;  we  read  it 
in  the  strange  words  which  Geraldine  addresses  to  the  spirit  of  the 
saintly  mother  who  has  approached  to  shield  from  harm  the 
beloved  child  for  whom  she  died ;  we  read  it  in  the  story  of  the 
friendship  and  enmity  between  the  Baron  and  Sir  Roland  de  Vaux 
of  Tryermaine ;  we  read  it  in  the  vision  seen  in  the  forest  by  the 
minstrel  Bard,  of  the  bright  green  snake  coiled  around  the  wings 

held  up  before  them  in  a  sterner  form.  They  were  compelled  to  contem- 
plate an  ideal  of  man,  far  more  colossal  than  is  brought  forward  in  the  tran- 
quil aspects  of  society;  and  they  were  often  engaged,  whether  they  would  or 
not,  with  the  elementary  problems  of  social  philosophy.  Mere  danger  forced 
a  man  into  thoughts  which  else  were  foreign  to  his  habits.  Mere  necessity  of 
action  forced  him  to  decide." — THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY'S  Essay  on  Style. 


!g  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

and  neck  of  a  fluttering  dove  ;  and,  finally,  we  read  it  in  its  most 
startling  form,  in  the  conclusion  of  the  poem,  "  A  little  child,  a 
limber  elf,  singing,  dancing  to  itself,"  etc.,  wherein  is  exhibited  the 
strange  tendency  to  express  love's  excess  "  with  words  of  unmeant 
bitterness."  This  dark  principle  of  evil,  we  may  suppose,  after 
dwelling  in  the  poet's  mind,  in  an  abstract  form,  crept  into  this 
broken  poem,  where  it  lies  coiled  up  among  the  choicest  and  most 
fragrant  flowers,  and  occasionally  springs  its  warning  rattle,  and 
projects  its  forked  tongue,  to  assure  us  of  its  ugly  presence. 

Both  these  great  poems  show  the  influence  of  the  revival  of  the 
old  English  Ballads.  Coleridge  had  drunk  deep  of  their  spirit. 

Shelley  and  Byron  were  fully  charged  with  the  revolutionary 
spirit  of  the  time.  Shelley,  of  all  the  poets  of  his  generation, 
had  the  most  prophetic  fervor  in  regard  to  the  progress  of  the 
democratic  spirit.  All  his  greatest  poems  are  informed  with  this 
fervor,  but  it  is  especially  exhibited  in  the  '  Prometheus  Unbound,' 
which  is,  in  the  words  of  Todhunter,  "  to  all  other  lyrical  poems 
what  the  ninth  symphony  is  to  all  other  symphonies ;  and  more 
than  this,  for  Shelley  has  here  outsoared  himself  more  unques- 
tionably than  Beethoven  in  his  last  great  orchestral  work.  .  .  . 
The  Titan  Prometheus  is  the  incarnation  of  the  genius  of  human- 
ity, chained  and  suffering  under  the  tyranny  «of  the  evil  principle 
which  at  present  rules  over  the  world,  typified  in  Jupiter;  the 
name  Prometheus,  foresight,  connecting  him  with  that  poetic 
imagination  which  is  the  true  prophetic  power,  penetrating  the 
mystery  of  things,  because,  as  Shelley  implies,  it  is  a  kind  of  divine 
Logos  incarnate  in  man  —  a  creative  force  which  dominates  nature 
by  acting  in  harmony  with  her." 

It  is,  perhaps,  more  correct  to  say  of  Byron,  that  he  was  charged 
with  the  spirit  of  revolt  rather  than  with  the  revolutionary  spirit. 
The  revolutionary  spirit  was  in  him  indefinite,  inarticulate  ;  he 
offered  nothing  to  put  in  the  place  of  the  social  and  political  evils 
against  which  he  rebelled.  There  is  nothing  constructive  in  his 
poetry.  But  if  his  great  passion-capital,  his  keen  spiritual  suscep- 
tibility, and  his  great  power  of  vigorous  expression,  had  been 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  17 

brought  into  the  service  of  constructive  thought,  he  might  have 
been  a  restorative  power  in  his  generation. 

The  greatest  loss  which  English  poetry  ever  sustained,  was  in 
the  premature  death  of  John  Keats.  What  he  would  have  done 
had  his  life  been  spared,  we  have  an  assurance  in  what  he  has  left 
us.  He  was  spiritually  constituted  to  be  one  of  the  subtlest  inter- 
preters of  the  secrets  of  life  that  the  whole  range  of  English  poetry 
exhibits.  No  poet  ever  more  deeply  felt  "  the  vital  connection  of 
beauty  with  truth."  He  realized  in  himself  his  idea  of  the  poet 
expressed  in  his  lines,  — 

"  'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  man 

Is  an  equal,  be  he  king, 
Or  poorest  of  the  beggar-clan, 

Or  any  other  wondrous  thing 
A  man  may  be  'twixt  ape  and  Plato ; 

'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  bird, 
Wren,  or  eagle,  finds  his  way  to 

All  its  instincts ;  he  hath  heard 
The  lion's  roaring,  and  can  tell 

What  his  horny  throat  expresseth, 
And  to  him  the  tiger's  yell 

Comes  articulate  and  presseth 
On  his  ear  like  mother  tongue."  1 

1  "We  often  think  of  Shelley  and  Keats  together,  and  they  seem  to  have  an 
attraction  for  minds  of  the  same  cast.  They  were  both  exposed  to  the  same 
influences,  those  revolutionary  influences  in  literature  and  religion  which 
inaugurated  a  new  period.  Yet  there  is  a  great  contrast  as  well  as  a  great 
similarity  between  them,  and  it  is  interesting  to  remark  the  different  spiritual 
results  in  the  case  of  these  two  different  minds  subjected  to  conditions  so  similar 
in  general,  though  different  in  detail.  Both  felt  the  same  need,  the  need  of 
escape,  desiring  to  escape  from  the  actual  world  in  which  they  perceived  more 
evil  than  good,  to  some  other  ideal  world  which  they  had  to  create  for  them- 
selves. This  is  the  point  of  their  similarity;  their  need  and  motive  were  the 
same,  to  escape  from  the  limitations  of  the  present.  But  they  escaped  in  differ- 
ent directions,  Keats  into  the  past  where  he  reconstructed  a  mythical  Greek 
world  after  the  designs  of  his  own  fancy,  Shelley  into  a  future  where  he  sought 
in  a  new  and  distant  era,  in  a  new  and  distant  world,  a  refuge  from  the  prea- 


!g  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

Wordsworth,  and  the  other  poets  I  have  named,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Keats,  and  Coleridge,  made  such  a  protest  against  authority  in 
poetry  as  had  been  made  in  the  i6th  century  against  authority 
in  religion ;  and  for  this  authority  were  substituted  the  soul- 
experiences  of  the  individual  poet,  who  set  his  verse  to  the  song 
that  was  within  him,  and  chose  such  subjects  as  would  best  embody 
and  articulate  that  song. 

But  by  the  end  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  present  century,  the 
great  poetical  billow,  which  was  not  indeed  caused  by,  but  received 
an  impulse  from,  the  great  political  billow,  the  French  Revolution 
(for  they  were  cognate  or  co-radical  movements),  had  quite  spent 
itself,  and  English  poetry  was  at  a  comparatively  low  ebb.  The 
Poetical  Revolution  had  done  its  work.  A  poetical  interregnum 
of  a  few  years'  duration  followed,  in  which  there  appeared  to  be 
a  great  reduction  of  the  spiritual  life  of  which  poetry  is  the  out- 
growth. 

Mr.  Edmund  W.  Gosse,  in  his  article  '  On  the  Early  Writings 

ent.  We  may  compare  Keats's  '  Hyperion '  with  Shelley's  '  Prometheus,'  as 
both  poems  touch  the  same  idea  —  the  dominion  of  elder  gods  usurped  by 
younger,  for  Prometheus  belonged  to  the  elder  generation.  The  impression 
Keats  gives  us  is  that  he  represents  the  dethroned  gods  in  the  sad  vale,  "  far 
from  the  fiery  noon,"  for  the  pleasure  of  moving  among  them  himself,  and 
creates  their  lonely  world  as  a  retreat  for  his  own  spirit.  Whereas  in  the 
'  Prometheus  Unbound '  we  feel  that  the  scenes  laid  in  ancient  days  and  built 
on  Greek  myths,  have  a  direct  relation  to  the  destinies  of  man,  and  that  Shel- 
ley went  back  into  the  past  because  he  believed  it  was  connected  with  the 
future,  and  because  he  could  use  it  as  an  artistic  setting  for  exhibiting  an  ideal 
world  in  the  future. 

"  This  problem  of  escape  —  to  rescue  the  soul  from  the  clutches  of  time, 
ineluctabile  tempus,  —  which  Keats  and  Shelley  tried  to  resolve  for  themselves 
by  creating  a  new  world  in  the  past  and  the  future,  met  Browning  too.  The 
new  way  which  Browning  has  essayed  —  the  way  in  which  he  accepts  the 
present  and  deals  with  it,  closes  with  time  instead  of  trying  to  elude  it,  and  dis- 
covers in  the  struggle  that  this  time,  ineluctabile  tempus,  is  really  a  faithful 
vassal  of  eternity,  and  that  its  limits  serve  and  do  not  enslave  illimitable 
spirit."  —  From  a  Paper  by  John  B.  Bury,  B.A.,  Trin.  Coll.,  Dublin,  on 
Browning's  'Aristophanes'  Apology •,'  read  at  $>th  meeting  of  the  Browning  Soc,t 
Jan.  29,  1886. 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  ig 

of  Robert  Browning,'  in  the  Century  for  December,  1881,  has 
characterized  this  interregnum  a  little  too  contemptuously,  per- 
haps. There  was,  indeed,  a  great  fall  in  the  spiritual  tide ;  but  it 
was  not  such  a  dead-low  tide  as  Mr.  Gosse  would  make  it. 

At  length,  in  1830,  appeared  a  volume  of  poems  by  a  young 
man,  then  but  twenty-one  years  of  age,  which  distinctly  marked 
the  setting  in  of  a  new  order  of  things.  It  bore  the  following 
title  :  '  Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  London  : 
Erfingham  Wilson,  Royal  Exchange,  Cornhill,  1830.'  pp.  154. 

The  volume  comprised  fifty-three  poems,  among  which  were 
'  The  Poet '  and  '  The  Poet's  Mind.'  These  two  poems  were 
emphatically  indicative  of  the  high  ideal  of  poetry  which  had 
been  attained,  and  to  the  development  of  which  the  band  of  poets 
of  the  preceding  generation  had  largely  contributed. 

A  review  of  the  volume,  by  John  Stuart  Mill,  then  a  young  man 
not  yet  twenty-five  years  of  age,  was  published  in  The  West- 
minster for  January',  1831.  It  bears  testimony  to  the  writer's  fine 
insight  and  sure  foresight ;  and  it  bears  testimony,  too,  to  his  high 
estimate  of  the  function  of  poetry  in  this  world  —  an  estimate,  too, 
in  kind  and  in  degree,  not  older  than  this  present  century.  The 
review  is  as  important  a  landmark  in  the  development  of  poetical 
criticism,  as  are  the  two  poems  I  have  mentioned,  in  the  develop- 
ment of  poetical  ideals,  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

In  the  concluding  paragraph  of  the  review,  Mill  says  :  "  A  gen- 
uine poet  has  deep  responsibilities  to  his  country  and  the  world, 
to  the  present  and  future  generations,  to  earth  and  heaven.  He, 
of  all  men,  should  have  distinct  and  worthy  objects  before  him, 
and  consecrate  himself  to  their  promotion.  It  is  thus  that  he  best 
consults  the  glory  of  his  art,  and  his  own  lasting  fame.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Tennyson  knows  that "  the  poet's  mind  is  holy  ground  "  ;  he  knows 
that  the  poet's  portion  is  to  be 

"  Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 

The  love  of  love  ;  " 

he  has  shown,  in  the  lines  from  which  we  quote,  his  own  just  con- 
ception of  the  grandeur  of  a  poet's  destiny ;  and  we  look  to  him 


20  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

for  its  fulfilment.  ...  If  our  estimate  of  Mr.  Tennyson  be  cor- 
rect, he  too  is  a  poet ;  and  many  years  hence  may  be  read  his 
juvenile  description  of  that  character  with  the  proud  conscious- 
ness that  it  has  become  the  description  and  history  of  his  own 
works." 

Two  years  later,  that  is,  in  1832  (the  volume,  however,  is  ante- 
dated 1833),  appeared  '  Poems  by  Alfred  Tennyson,'  pp.  163.  In 
it  were  contained  '  The  Lady  of  Shalott,'  and  the  untitled  poems, 
known  by  their  first  lines,  '  You  ask  me  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease,'  '  Of 
old  sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights,'  and  '  Love  thou  thy  Land,  with 
Love  far  brought.' 

In  '  The  Lady  of  Shalott '  is  mystically  shadowed  forth  the  rela- 
tion which  poetic  genius  should  sustain  to  the  world  for  whose 
spiritual  redemption  it  labors,  and  the  fatal  consequences  of  its 
being  seduced  by  the  world's  temptations,  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  and 
the  lust  of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride  of  life. 

The  other  poems,  'You  ask  me  why,'  'Of  old  sat  Freedom,' 
and  '  Love  thou  thy  land,'  are  important  as  exponents  of  what 
may  be  called  the  poet's  institutional  creed.  A  careful  study  of  his 
subsequent  poetry  will  show  that  in  these  early  poems  he  accurately 
and  distinctly  revealed  the  attitude  toward  outside  things  which  he 
has  since  maintained.  He  is  a  good  deal  of  an  institutional  poet, 
and,  as  compared  with  Browning,  a  strongly  institutional  poet. 
Browning's  supreme  and  all-absorbing  interest  is  in  individual 
souls.  He  cares  but  little,  evidently,  about  institutions.  At  any 
rate,  he  gives  them  little  or  no  place  in  his  poetry.  Tennyson  is 
a  very  decided  reactionary  product  of  the  revolutionary  spirit 
which  inspired  some  of  his  poetical  predecessors  of  the  previous 
generation.  He  has  a  horror  of  the  revolutionary.  To  him,  the 
French  Revolution  was  "  the  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt,"  ['  In 
Memoriam,'  cix.],  and  "the  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine"  ['  I.  M.,' 
cxxvii.].  He  attaches  great  importance  to  the  outside  arrange- 
ments of  society  for  upholding  and  advancing  the  individual.  He 
would  "  make  Knowledge  circle  with  the  winds,"  but  "  her  herald, 
Reverence,"  must 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  21 

"fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds." 

He  has  a  great  regard  for  precedents,  almost  as  precedents. 
He  is  emphatically  the  poet  of  law  and  order.  All  his  sympathies 
are  decidedly,  but  not  narrowly,  conservative.  He  is,  in  short,  a 
choice  product  of  nineteenth  century  English  civilization  ;  and  his 
poetry  may  be  said  to  be  the  most  distinct  expression  of  the  re- 
finements of  English  culture  —  refinements,  rather  than  the  ruder 
but  more  vital  forms  of  English  strength  and  power.  All  his  ideals 
of  institutions  and  the  general  machinery  of  life,  are  derived  from 

England.     She  is 

"the  land  that  freemen  till, 
That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land  where,  girt  with  friends  or  foes, 
A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 
A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent: 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread." 

But  the  anti-revolutionary  and  the  institutional  features  of  Ten- 
nyson's poetry  are  not  those  of  the  higher  ground  of  his  poetry. 
They  are  features  which,  though  primarily  due,  it  may  be,  to  the 
poet's  temperament,  are  indirectly  due  to  the  particular  form  of 
civilization  in  which  he  has  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  his  culture, 
and  which  he  reflects  more  than  any  of  his  poetical  contemporaries. 

The  most  emphasized  and  most  vitalized  idea,  the  idea  which 
glints  forth  everywhere  in  his  poetry,  which  has  the  most  impor- 
tant bearing  on  man's  higher  life,  and  which  marks  the  height 
of  the  spiritual  tide  reached  in  his  poetry,  is,  that  the  highest  order 


22  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

of  manhood  is  a  well-poised,  harmoniously  operating  duality  of 
the  active  or  intellectual  or  discursive,  and  the  passive  or  spirit- 
ually sensitive.  This  is  the  idea  which  informs  his  poem  of  '  The 
Princess.'  It  is  prominent  in  '  In  Memoriam '  and  in  '  The  Idylls 
of  the  King.'  In  '  The  Princess,'  the  Prince,  speaking  of  the  rela- 
tions of  the  sexes,  says  :  — 

"  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind ; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  all  their  powers, 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 
Distinct  in  individualities, 
But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men : 
Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  chaste  and  calm : 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind." 

To  state  briefly  the  cardinal  Tennysonian  idea,  man  must  realize 
a  womanly  manliness,  and  woman  a  manly  womanliness. 

Tennyson  presents  to  us  his  ideal  man  in  the  lopth  section  of 
'  In  Memoriam.'  It  is  descriptive  of  his  friend,  Arthur  Henry 
Hallam.  All  that  is  most  characteristic  of  Tennyson,  even  his 
Englishness,  is  gathered  up  in  this  poem  of  six  stanzas.  It  is 
interesting  to  meet  with  such  a  representative  and  comprehensive 
bit  in  a  great  poet. 

"  Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never  dry ; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 
That  saw  through  all  the  Muses'  walk ; 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  23 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man  ; 
Impassioned  logic,  which  outran 

The  bearer  in  its  fiery  course ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 

But  touched  with  no  ascetic  gloom  ; 

And  passions  pure  in  snowy  bloom 
Through  all  the  years  of  April  blood." 

The  first  two  verses  of  this  stanza  also  characterize  the  King 
Arthur *  of  the  '  Idylls  of  the  King.'  In  the  next  stanza  we  have 
the  poet's  institutional  Englishness  :  — 

"  A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England  ;  not  the  school-boy  heat, 
The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace  2 

In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 

A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 
And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on  ;  if  they  look'd  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise." 

Tennyson's  genius  was  early  trained  by  the  skeptical  philosophy 
of  the  age.  All  his  poetry  shows  this.  The  '  In  Memoriam  '  may 
almost  be  said  to  be  the  poem  of  nineteenth  century  scepticism. 
To  this  scepticism  he  has  applied  an  "  all-subtilizing  intellect,"  and 
has  translated  it  into  the  poetical  "  concrete,"  with  a  rare  artistic 
skill,  and  more  than  this,  has  subjected  it  to  the  spiritual  instincts 
and  apperceptions  of  the  feminine  side  of  his  nature  and  made  it 

1  See    'The    Holy  Grail,'    the   concluding  thirty-two  verses,   beginning: 
"And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  O  my  Knights," and  ending  "ye  have  seen  that 
ye  have  seen." 

2  The  idea  of  '  The  Princess.' 


24  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

vassal  to  a  larger  faith.  But  it  is,  after  all,  not  the  vital  faith 
which  Browning's  poetry  exhibits,  a  faith  proceeding  directly  from 
the  spiritual  man.  It  is  rather  the  faith  expressed  by  Browning's 
Bishop  Blougram :  — 

"  With  me  faith  means  perpetual  unbelief 
Kept  quiet  like  the  snake  'neath  Michael's  foot, 
Who  stands  firm  just  because  he  feels  it  writhe." 

And  Tennyson,  in  picturing  to  us  in  the  Idylls,  the  passage  of  the 
soul  "  from  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep,"  appears  to  have 
felt  it  necessary  to  the  completion  of  that  picture  '(or  why  did  he 
do  it?),  that  he  should  bring  out  that  doubt  at  the  last  moment. 
The  dying  Arthur  is  made  to  say  :  — 

"  I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; "  etc. 

Tennyson's  poetry  is,  in  fact,  an  expression  of  the  highest  sub- 
limation of  the  scepticism  which  came  out  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, which  invoked  the  authority  of  the  sensualistic  philosophy  of 
Locke,  and  has  since  been  fostered  by  the  science  of  the  nine- 
teenth ;  while  Browning's  poetry  is  a  decided  protest  against,  and 
a  reactionary  product  of,  that  scepticism,  that  infidel  philosophy 
(infidel  as  tQ  the  transcendental),  and  has  closed 'with  it  and  borne 
away  the  palm. 

The  key-note  of  his  poetry  is  struck  in  '  Paracelsus,'  published 
in  1835,  in  his  twenty-third  year,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
'  Pauline  '  published  in  1833,  the  earliest  of  his  compositions : 
Paracelsus  says  (and  he  who  knows  Browning  knows  it  to  be 
substantially  his  own  creed)  :  — 

"  Truth  is  within  ourselves;  it  takes  no  rise 

From  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe: 
There  is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all, 
Where  truth  abides  in  fulness ;  and  around 
Wall  upon  wall,  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in, 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY. 

This  perfect,  clear  perception  —  which  is  truth ; 

A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 

Blinds  it,  and  makes  all  error :  and  '  to  know ' 

Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 

Whence  the  imprisoned  splendour  may  escape, 

Than  in  effecting  entry  for  a  light 

Supposed  to  be  without.     Watch  narrowly 

The  demonstration  of  a  truth,  its  birth, 

And  you  trace  back  the  effluence  to  its  spring 

And  source  within  us,  where  broods  radiance  vast, 

To  be  .elicited  ray  by  ray,  as  chance 

Shall  favour :  chance  —  for  hitherto,  your  sage 

Even  as  he  knows  not  how  those  beams  are  born, 

As  little  knows  he  what  unlocks  their  fount ; 

And  men  have  oft  grown  old  among  their  books 

To  die,  case-hardened  in  their  ignorance, 

Whose  careless  youth  had  promised  what  long  years 

Of  unremitted  labour  ne'er  performed  : 

While,  contrary,  it  has  chanced  some  idle  day, 

That  autumn-loiterers  just  as  fancy-free 

As  the  midges  in  the  sun,  have  oft  given  vent 

To  truth  —  produced  mysteriously  as  cape 

Of  cloud  grown  out  of  the  invisible  air. 

Hence,  may  not  truth  be  lodged  alike  in  all, 

The  lowest  as  the  highest?  some  slight  film 

The  interposing  bar  which  binds  it  up, 

And  makes  the  idiot,  just  as  makes  the  sage 

Some  film  removed,  the  happy  outlet  whence 

Truth  issues  proudly  ?     See  this  soul  of  ours ! 

How  it  strives  weakly  in  the  child,  is  loosed 

In  manhood,  clogged  by  sickness,  back  compelled 

By  age  and  waste,  set  free  at  last  by  death : 

Why  is  it,  flesh  enthralls  it  or  enthrones? 

What  is  this  flesh  we  have  to  penetrate? 

Oh,  not  alone  when  life  flows  still  do  truth 

And  power  emerge,  but  also  when  strange  chance 

Ruffles  its  current ;  in  unused  conjuncture, 

When  sickness  breaks  the  body  —  hunger,  watching, 

Excess,  or  languor  —  oftenest  death's  approach  — 


26  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

Peril,  deep  joy,  or  woe.     One  man  shall  crawl 
Through  life,  surrounded  with  all  stirring  things, 
Unmoved  —  and  he  goes  mad  ;  and  from  the  wreck 
Of  what  he  was,  by  his  wild  talk  alone, 
You  first  collect  how  great  a  spirit  he  hid. 
Therefore  set  free  the  spirit  alike  in  all, 
Discovering  the  true  laws  by  which  the  flesh 
Bars  in  the  spirit!  .  .  . 
******** 

I  go  to  gather  this 

The  sacred  knowledge,  here  and  there  dispersed 
About  the  world,  long  lost  or  never  found. 
And  why  should  I  be  sad,  or  lorn  of  hope? 
Why  ever  make  man's  good  distinct  from  God's? 
Or,  finding  they  are  one,  why  dare  mistrust? 
Who  shall  succeed  if  not  one  pledged  like  me  ? 
Mine  is  no  mad  attempt  to  build  a  world 
Apart  from  His,  like  those  who  set  themselves 
To  find  the  nature  of  the  spirit  they  bore, 
And,  taught  betimes  that  all  their  gorgeous  dreams 
Were  only  born  to  vanish  in  this  life, 
Refused  to  fit  them  to  this  narrow  sphere, 
But  chose  to  figure  forth  another  world 
And  other  frames  meet  for  their  vast  desires,  — 
Still,  all  a  dream  !     Thus  was  life  scorned ;  but  life 
Shall  yet  be  crowned  :  twine  amaranth  !     I  am  priest !  " 

And  again :  — 

"In  man's  self  arise 
August  anticipations,  symbols,  types 
Of  a  dim  splendour  ever  on  before, 
In  that  eternal  circle  run  by  life  : 
For  men  begin  to  pass  their  nature's  bound, 
And  find  new  hopes  and  cares  which  fast  supplant 
Their  proper x  joys  and  griefs  ;  and  outgrow  all 
The  narrow  creeds  of  right  and  wrong,  which  fade 
Before  the  unmeasured  thirst  for  good  ;  while  peace 
Rises  within  them  ever  more  and  more. 

1  In  the  sense  of  the  Latin  frofrius,  peculiar,  private,  personal. 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  27 

Such  men  are  even  now  upon  the  earth, 

Serene  amid  the  half-formed  creatures  round, 

Who  should  be  saved  by  them  and  joined  with  them." 

In  the  last  three  verses  is  indicated  the  doctrine  of  the  regenerat- 
ing power  of  exalted  personalities,  so  prominent  in  Browning's 
poetry,  and  which  is  treated  in  the  next  paper. 

There  is  no  tabula  rasa  doctrine  in  these  passages,  nor  in  any 
others,  in  the  poet's  voluminous  works ;  and  of  all  men  of  great 
intellect  and  learning  (it  is  always  a  matter  of  mere  insulated  intel- 
lect), born  in  England  since  the  days  of  John  Locke,  no  one, 
perhaps,  has  been  so  entirely  untainted  with  this  doctrine  as 
Robert  Browning.  It  is  a  doctrine  which  great  spiritual  vitality 
(and  that  he  early  possessed),  reaching  out,  as  it  does,  beyond  all 
experience,  beyond  all  transformation  of  sensations,  and  all  conclu- 
sions of  the  discursive  understanding,  naturally  and  spontaneously 
rejects.  It  simply  says,  "  I  know  better,"  and  there  an  end. 

The  great  function  of  the  poet,  as  poet,  is,  with  Browning,  to 
open  out  a  way  whence  the  imprisoned  splendor  may  escape,  not 
to  effect  entry  for  a  light  supposed  to  be  without ;  to  trace  back 
the  effluence  to  its  spring  and  source  within  us,  where  broods 
radiance  vast,  to  be  elicited  ray  by  ray. 

In  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  published  thirty-seven  years  after  '  Para- 
celsus,' is  substantially  the  same  doctrine  :  — 

"Truth  inside,  and  outside,  truth  also;  and  between 
Each,  falsehood  that  is  change,  as  truth  is  permanence. 
The  individual  soul  works  through  the  shows  of  sense, 
(Which,  ever  proving  false,  still  promise  to  be  true) 
Up  to  an  outer  soul  as  individual  too ; 
And,  through  the  fleeting,  lives  to  die  into  the  fixed, 
And  reach  at  length  '  God,  man,  or  both  together  mixed.1 " 

In  his  poem  entitled  '  Popularity,'  included  in  his  "  fifty  men 
and  women,"  the  speaker,  in  the  monologue,  "draws"  his  "true 
poet,"  whom  he  knows,  if  others  do  not ;  who,  though  he  renders, 


28  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

or  stands  ready  to  render,  to  his  fellows,  the  supreme  service  of 
opening  out  a  way  whence  the  imprisoned  splendor  of  their  souls 
may  escape,  is  yet  locked  safe  from  end  to  end  of  this  dark  world. 
Though  there  may  be,  in  his  own  time,  no  "  reapers  reaping 
early  in  among  the  bearded  barley"  and  "piling  sheaves  in  up- 
lands airy  "  who  hear  his  song,  he  holds  the  future  fast,  accepts 
the  coming  ages'  duty,  their  present  for  this  past.  This  true,  crea- 
tive poet,  whom  the  speaker  calls  "  God's  glow-worm,"  creative 
in  the  sense  of  revealing,  whose  inmost  centre,  where  truth  abides 
in  fulness,  has  that  freedom  of  responsiveness  to  the  divine  which 
makes  him  the  revealer  of  it  to  men,  plays  the  part  in  the  world 
of  spirit  which,  in  the  material  world  was  played  by  the  fisher  who, 
first  on  the  coast  of  Tyre  the  old,  fished  up  the  purple-yielding 
murex.  Until  the  precious  liquor,  filtered  by  degrees,  and  refined 
to  proof,  is  flasked  and  priced,  and  salable  at  last,  the  world  stands 
aloof.  But  when  it  is  all  ready  for  the  market,  the  small  dealers, 
"  put  blue  into  their  line,"  and  outdare  each  other  in  azure  feats 
by  which  they  secure  great  popularity,  and,  as  a  result,  fare  sump- 
tuously ;  while  he  who  fished  the  murex  up  was  unrecognized,  and 
fed,  perhaps,  on  porridge. 

POPULARITY. 

I. 

STAND  still,  true  poet  that  you  are ! 

I  know  you ;  let  me  try  and  draw  you. 
Some  night  you'll  fail  us  :  when  afar 

You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 
Knew  you,  and  named  J  a  star ! 

n. 
My  star,  God's  glow-worm !    Why  extend 

That  loving  hand  of  His  which  leads  you, 
Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 

Of  this  dark  world,  unless  He  needs  you, 
Just  saves  your  light  to  spend? 

1  Announced. 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY. 

in. 

His  clenched  hand  shall  unclose  at  last, 
I  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty : 

My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 
Accepts  the  coming  ages1  duty, 

Their  present  for  this  past. 

IV. 

That  day,  the  earth's  feast-master's  brow 
Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  raising ; 

"  Others  give  best  at  first,  but  Thou 
Forever  set'st  our  table  praising, 

Keep'st  the  good  win^  till  now ! " 

v. 
Meantime,  I'll  draw  you  as  you  stand, 

With  few  or  none  to  watch  and  wonder : 
I'll  say  —  a  fisher,  on  the  sand 

By  Tyre  the  old,  with  ocean-plunder, 
A  netful,  brought  to  land. 

VI. 

Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 
Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 

Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles, 
And  colored  like  Astarte's  eyes 

Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells  ? 

VII. 

And  each  by-stander  of  them  all 
Could  criticise,  and  quote  tradition 

How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some  pall  — 
To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's  ambition; 

Worth  sceptre,  crown,  and  ball. 

VIII. 

Yet  there's  the  dye,  in  that  rough  mesh, 
The  sea  has  only  just  o'er-whispered ! 

Live  whelks,  each  lip's  beard  dripping  fresh, 
As  if  they  still  the  water's  lisp  heard 

Through  foam  the  rock-weeds  thresh. 


30  SPIRITUAL  EBB  AND  FLOW 

IX. 

Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 

Such  hangings  for  his  cedar-house, 
That,  when  gold-robed  he  took  the  throne 

In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse 
Might  swear  his  presence  shone 

x. 

Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 
Which  burns  deep  in  the  blue-bell's  womb 

What  time,  with  ardors  manifold^ 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom, 

Drunken  and  overbold. 

XI. 

Mere  conchs !  not  fit  for  warp  or  woof ! 

Till  cunning  come  to  pound  and  squeeze 
And  clarify,  —  refine  to  proof  1 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees, 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 

XII. 

And  there's  the  extract,  flasked  and  fine, 

And  priced  and  salable  at  last ! 
And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes,  and  Nokes  combine 

To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 
Put  blue  into  their  line.2 

XIII. 

Hobbs  hints  blue,  — straight  he  turtle  eats : 
Nobbs  prints  blue,  — claret  crowns  his  cup : 

Nokes  outdares  Stokes  in  azure  feats,  — 
Both  gorge.     Who  fished  the  murex  up  ? 

What  porridge  had  John  Keats  ? 

1  Original  reading :  — 

"Till  art  comes, — comes  to  pound  and  squeeze 
And  clarify,  —  refines  to  proof." 

2  "  Line"  is  perhaps  meant  to  be  used  equivocally,  —  their  line  of  business 
or  line  of  their  verse. 


IN  ENGLISH  POETRY.  3! 

The  spiritual  ebb  and  flow  exhibited  in  English  poetry  (the 
highest  tide  being  reached  in  Tennyson  and  Browning)  which  I 
have  endeavored  cursorily  to  present,  bear  testimony  to  the  fact 
that  human  nature  will  assert  its  wholeness  in  the  civilized  man. 
And  there  must  come  a  time,  in  the  progress  of  civilization,  when 
this  ebb  and  flow  will  be  less  marked  than  it  has  been  heretofore, 
by  reason  of  a  better  balancing,  which  will  be  brought  about,  of 
the  intellectual  and  the  spiritual.  Each  will  have  its  due  activity. 
The  man  of  intellectual  pursuits  will  not  have  a  starved  spiritual 
nature ;  and  the  man  of  predominant  spiritual  functions  will  not 
have  an  intellect  weakened  into  a  submissiveness  to  formulated, 
stereotyped,  and,  consequently,  lifeless  dogmas. 

Robert  Browning  is  in  himself  the  completest  fulfilment  of  this 
equipoise  of  the  intellectual  and  the  spiritual,  possessing  each  in 
an  exalted  degree ;  and  his  poetry  is  an  emphasized  expression  of 
his  own  personality,  and  a  prophecy  of  the  ultimate  results  of 
Christian  civilization. 


THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 


II. 

THE  IDEA  OF   PERSONALITY  AND   OF  ART  AS   AN  INTER-. 

MEDIATE  AGENCY  OF  PERSONALITY,  AS  EMBODIED 

IN   BROWNING'S   POETRY. 

i.   GENERAL  REMARKS. 
"  Subsists  no  law  of  Life  outside  of  Life. 


The  Christ  himself  had  been  no  Lawgiver, 
Unless  he  had  given  the  life,  too,  with  the  law." 

importance  of  Robert  Browning's  poetry,  as  embodying 
_  the  profoundest  thought,  the  subtlest  and  most  complex 
sentiment,  and,  above  all,  the  most  quickening  spirituality  of  the 
age,  has,  as  yet,  notwithstanding  the  great  increase  within  the  last 
few  years  of  devoted  students,  received  but  a  niggardly  recogni- 
tion when  compared  with  that  received  by  far  inferior  contempo- 
rary poets.  There  are,  however,  many  indications  in  the  poetical 
criticism  of  the  day  that  upon  it  will  ere  long  be  pronounced  the 
verdict  which  is  its  due.  And  the  founding  of  a  society  in  Eng- 
land in  1881,  "to  gather  together  some  at  least  of  the  many 
admirers  of  Robert  Browning,  for  the  study  and  discussion  of  his 
works,  and  the  publication  of  papers  on  them,  and  extracts  from 
works  illustrating  them  "  has  already  contributed  much  towards 
paying  a  long-standing  debt. 

Mr.  Browning's  earliest  poem,  '  Pauline '  (he  calls  it  in  the 
preface  to  the  reprint  of  it  in  1868  "a  boyish  work,"  though  it 
exhibits  the  great  basal  thought  of  all  his  subsequent  poetry),  was 
published  in  1833,  since  which  time  he  has  produced  the  largest 
body  of  poetry  produced  by  any  one  poet  in  English  literature ; 
and  the  range  of  thought  and  passion  which  it  exhibits  is  greater 


IN  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 


33 


than  that  of  any  other  poet,  without  a  single  exception,  since  the 
days  of  Shakespeare.  And  he  is  the  most  like  Shakespeare  in  his 
deep  interest  in  human  nature  in  all  its  varieties  of  good  and  evil. 
Though  endowed  with  a  powerful,  subtle,  and  restless  intellect,  he 
has  throughout  his  voluminous  poetry  made  the  strongest  protest 
that  has  been  made  in  these  days  against  mere  intellect.  And  his 
poetry  has,  therefore,  a  peculiar  value  in  an  age  like  the  present — 
an  age  exhibiting  "  a  condition  of  humanity  which  has  thrown  itself 
wholly  on  its  intellect  and  its  genius  in  physics,  and  has  done 
marvels  in  material  science  and  invention,  but  at  the  expense  of 
the  interior  divinity."  It  is  the  human  heart,  that  is,  the  intuitive, 
the  non-discursive  side  of  man,  with  its  hopes  and  its  prophetic 
aspirations,  as  opposed  to  the  analytic,  the  discursive  understand- 
ing, which  is  to  him  a  subject  of  the  deepest  and  most  scrutinizing 
interest.  He  knows  that  its  deepest  depths  are  "  deeper  than  did 
ever  plummet  sound"  ;  but  he  also  knows  that  it  is  in  these  depths 
that  life's  greatest  secrets  must  be  sought.  The  philosophies  ex- 
cogitated by  the  insulated  intellect  help  nothing  toward  even  a 
glimpse  of  these  secrets.  In  one  of  his  later  poems,  that  entitled 
'  House,'  he  has  intimated,  and  forcibly  intimated,  his  sense  of  the 
impossibility  of  penetrating  to  the  Holy  of  Holies  of  this  wondrous 
human  heart,  though  assured  as  he  is  that  all  our  hopes  in  regard 
to  the  soul's  destiny  are  warmed  and  cherished  by  what  radiates 
thence.  He  quotes,  in  the  last  stanza  of  this  poem,  from  Words- 
worth's sonnet  on  the  Sonnet,  "  With  this  same  key  Shakespeare 
unlocked  his  heart,"  and  then  adds,  "Did  Shakespeare?  If  so, 
the  less  Shakespeare  he  !  " 

Mrs.  Browning,  in  the  Fifth  Book  of  her '  Aurora  Leigh,'  has  given 
a  full  and  very  forcible  expression  to  the  feeling  which  has  caused 
the  highest  dramatic  genius  of  the  present  day  to  seek  refuge  in 
the  poem  and  the  novel.  "  I  will  write  no  plays ;  because  the 
drama,  less  sublime  in  this,  makes  lower  appeals,  defends  more 
menially,  adopts  the  standard  of  the  public  taste  to  chalk  its 
height  on,  wears  a  dog-chain  round  its  regal  neck,  and  learns  to 
carry  and  fetch  the  fashions  of  the  day,  to  please  the  day ;  .  .  . 


34 


THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 


Tis  that,  honoring  to  its  worth  the  drama,  I  would  fear  to  keep  it 
down  to  the  level  of  the  footlights.  .  .  .  The  growing  drama  has 
outgrown  such  toys  of  simulated  stature,  face,  and  speech,  it  also, 
peradventure,  may  outgrow  the  simulation  of  the  painted  scene, 
boards,  actors,  prompters,  gaslight,  and  costume ;  and  take  for  a 
worthier  stage,  the  soul  itself,  its  shifting  fancies  and  celestial 
lights,  with  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences  to  keep  the  pauses  of  the 
rhythmic  sounds" 

Robert  Browning's  poetry  is,  in  these  days,  the  fullest  realiza- 
tion of  what  is  expressed  in  the  concluding  lines  of  this  passage  : 
he  has  taken  for  a  worthier  stage,  the  soul  itself,  its  shifting  fancies 
and  celestial  lights,  more  than  any  other  poet  of  the  age.  And  he 
has  worked  with  a  thought-and-passion  capital  greater  than  the 
combined  thought-and-passion  capital  of  the  richest  of  his  poeti- 
cal contemporaries.  And  he  has  thought  nobly  of  the  soul,  and 
has  treated  it  as,  in  its  essence,  above  the  fixed  and  law-bound 
system  of  things  which  we  call  nature ;  in  other  words,  he  has 
treated  it  as  supernatural.  "  Mind,"  he  makes  the  Pope  say,  in 
'The  Ring  and  the  Book,' — and  his  poetry  bears  testimony  to  its 
being  his  own  conviction  and  doctrine,  — "  Mind  is  not  matter, 
nor  from  matter,  but  above."  With  every  student  of  Browning, 
the  recognition  and  acceptance  of  this  must  be  his  starting-point. 
Even  that  which  impelled  the  old  dog,  in  his  poem  entitled  'Tray' 
('  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  First  Series) ,  to  rescue  the  beggar  child  that 
fell  into  the  river,  and  then  to  dive  after  the  child's  doll,  and  bring 
it  up,  after  a  long  stay  under  water,  the  poet  evidently  distinguishes 
from  matter,  —  regards  as  "not  matter  nor  from  matter,  but 
above  "  :  — 

"  And  so,  amid  the  laughter  gay, 

Trotted  my  hero  off,  —  old  Tray,  — 

Till  somebody,  prerogatived 

With  reason,  reasoned:  'Why  he  dived, 

His  brain  would  show  us,  I  should  say. 

'  John,  go  and  catch  —  or,  if  needs  be, 
Purchase  that  animal  for  me ! 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY.  35 

By  vivisection,  at  expense 

Of  half-an-hour  and  eighteen  pence, 

How  brain  secretes  dog's  soul,  we'll  see ! ' " 

In  his  poem  entitled  '  Halbert  and  Hob '  ('  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  First 
Series),  quoting  from  Shakespeare's  'King  Lear,'  "Is  there  a 
reason  in  nature  for  these  hard  hearts  ?  "  the  poet  adds,  "  O  Lear, 
That  a  reason  out  of  nature  must  turn  them  soft,  seems  clear  !  " 

Mind  is,  with  Browning,  supernatural,  but  linked  with,  and 
restrained,  and  even  enslaved  by,  the  natural.  The  soul,  in  its 
education,  that  is,  in  its  awakening,  becomes  more  and  more  inde- 
pendent of  the  natural,  and,  as  a  consequence,  more  responsive  to 
higher  souls  and  to  the  Divine.  All  spirit  is  mutually  attractive, 
and  the  degree  of  attractiveness  results  from  the  degree  of  free- 
dom from  the  obstructions  of  the  material,  or  the  natural.  Loving 
the  truth  implies  a  greater  or  less  degree  of  that  freedom  of  the 
spirit  which  brings  it  into  sympathy  with  the  true.  "  If  ye  abide 
in  My  word,"  says  Christ  (and  we  must  understand  by  "  word  " 
His  own  concrete  life,  the  word  made  flesh,  and  living  and  breath- 
ing), "  if  ye  abide  in  My  word  "  (that  is,  continue  to  live  My  life), 
"  then  are  ye  truly  My  disciples  ;  and  ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and 
the  truth  shall  make  you  free  "  (John  viii.  32). 

In  regard  to  the  soul's  inherent  possessions,  its  microcosmic 
potentialities,  Paracelsus  is  made  to  say  (and  this  may  be  taken, 
too,  as  the  poet's  own  creed),  "Truth  is  within  ourselves ;  it  takes 
no  rise  from  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe  :  there  is  an 
inmost  centre  in  us  all,  where  truth  abides  in  fulness ;  and  around, 
wall  upon  wall,  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in,  this  perfect,  clear  per- 
ception—  which  is  truth.  A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 
blinds  it,  and  makes  all  error :  and,  to  know,  rather  consists  in 
opening  out  a  way  whence  the  imprisoned  splendour  may  escape, 
than  in  effecting  entry  for  a  light  supposed  to  be  without." 

All  possible  thought  is  implicit  in  the  mind,  and  waiting  for 
release — waiting  to  become  explicit.  "Seek  within  yourself," 
says  Goethe,  "  and  you  will  find  everything ;  and  rejoice  that, 
without,  there  lies  a  Nature  that  says  yea  and  amen  to  all  you 


36  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

have  discovered  in  yourself."  And  Mrs.  Browning,  in  the  person 
of  Aurora  Leigh,  writes  :  "  The  cygnet  finds  the  water ;  but  the 
man  is  born  in  ignorance  of  his  element,  and  feels  out  blind  at 
first,  disorganized  by  sin  in  the  blood,  —  his  spirit-insight  dulled 
and  crossed  by  his  sensations.  Presently  we  feel  it  quicken  in  the 
dark  sometimes ;  then  mark,  be  reverent,  be  obedient,  —  for  those 
dumb  motions  of  imperfect  life  are  oracles  of  vital  Deity  attesting 
the  Hereafter.  Let  who  says  '  The  soul's  a  clean  white  paper,' 
rather  say,  a  palimpsest,  a  prophet's  holograph  defiled,  erased,  and 
covered  by  a  monk's,  —  the  Apocalypse  by  a  Longus  !  poring  on 
which  obscure  text,  we  may  discern  perhaps  some  fair,  fine  trace 
of  what  was  written  once,  some  off-stroke  of  an  alpha  and  omega 
expressing  the  old  Scripture." 

This  "  fair,  fine  trace  of  what  was  written  once,"  it  was  the  mis- 
sion of  Christ,  it  is  the  mission  of  all  great  personalities,  of  all  the 
concrete  creations  of  Genius,  to  bring  out  into  distinctness  and 
vital  glow.  It  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  brought  out,  —  and  this  fact 
is  emphasized  in  the  poetry  of  Browning,  —  it  cannot  be  brought 
out,  through  what  is  born  and  resides  in  the  brain  :  it  is  brought 
out,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  by  the  attracting  power  of  mag- 
netic personalities,  the  ultimate,  absolute  personality  being  the 
God-man,  Christ,  6ea.v6p<airos. 

The  human  soul  is  regarded  in  Browning's  poetry  as  a  com- 
plexly organized,  individualized  divine  force,  destined  to  gravitate 
towards  the  Infinite.  How  is  this  force,  with  its  numberless 
checks  and  counter-checks,  its  centripetal  and  centrifugal  tenden- 
cies, best  determined  in  its  necessarily  oblique  way  ?  How  much 
earthly  ballast  must  it  carry,  to  keep  it  sufficiently  steady,  and  how 
little,  that  it  may  not  be  weighed  down  with  materialistic  heavi- 
ness ?  How  much  certainty  must  it  have  of  its  course,  and  how 
much  uncertainty,  that  it  may  shun  the  "  torpor  of  assurance," l 
and  not  lose  the  vigor  which  comes  of  a  dubious  and  obstructed 
road,  "  which  who  stands  upon  is  apt  to  doubt  if  it's  indeed  a 

1  'The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  The  Pope,  v.  1853. 


IN  BROWNINGS  POETRY.  37 

road." l  "  Pure  faith  indeed,"  says  Bishop  Blougram,  to  Gigadibs, 
the  literary  man,  "  you  know  not  what  you  ask  !  naked  belief  in 
God  the  Omnipotent,  Omniscient,  Omnipresent,  sears  too  much 
the  sense  of  conscious  creatures,  to  be  borne.  It  were  the  see- 
ing him,  no  flesh  shall  dare.  Some  think,  Creation's  meant  to 
show  him  forth  :  I  say,  it's  meant  to  hide  him  all  it  can,  and  that's 
what  all  the  blessed  Evil's  for.  Its  use  in  time  is  to  environ  us,  our 
breath,  our  drop  of  dew,  with  shield  enough  against  that  sight  till 
we  can  bear  its  stress.  Under  a  vertical  sun,  the  exposed  brain 
and  lidless  eye  and  disimprisoned  heart  less  certainly  would  wither 
up  at  once,  than  mind,  confronted  with  the  truth  of  Him.  But 
time  and  earth  case-harden  us  to  live ;  the  feeblest  sense  is  trusted 
most :  the  child  feels  God  a  moment,  ichors  o'er  the  place,  plays 
on  and  grows  to  be  a  man  like  us.  With  me,  faith  means  perpet- 
ual unbelief  kept  quiet  like  the  snake  'neath  Michael's  foot,  who 
stands  calm  just  because  he  feels  it  writhe."2 

There  is  a  remarkable  passage  to  the  same  effect  in  '  Paracelsus,' 
in  which  Paracelsus  expatiates  on  the  "  just  so  much  of  doubt  as 
bade  him  plant  a  surer  foot  upon  the  sun-road." 

And  in  '  Easter  Day ' :  — 

"  You  must  mix  some  uncertainty 
With  faith,  if  you  would  have  faith  be? 

And  the  good  Pope  in  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  alluding  to  the 
absence  of  true  Christian  soldiership,  which  is  revealed  by  Pom- 
pilia's  case,  says :  "  Is  it  not  this  ignoble  confidence,  cowardly 
hardihood,  that  dulls  and  damps,  makes  the  old  heroism  impos- 
sible ?  Unless  .  .  .  what  whispers  me  of  times  to  come  ?  What 
if  it  be  the  mission  of  that  age  my  death  will  usher  into  life,  to 
shake  this  torpor  of  assurance  from  our  creed,  reintroduce  the 
doubt  discarded,  bring  the  formidable  danger  back  we  drove  long 
ago  to  the  distance  and  the  dark?" 

1  '  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology,'  w.  198,  199. 
8  '  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology,'  w.  650-671. 


3g  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

True  healthy  doubt  means,  in  Browning,  that  the  spiritual  nature 
is  sufficiently  quickened  not  to  submit  to  the  conclusions  of  the 
insulated  ^intellect.  It  will  reach  out  beyond  them,  and  assert 
itself,  whatever  be  the  resistance  offered  by  the  intellect.  Mere 
doubt,  without  any  resistance  from  the  intuitive,  non-discursive 
side  of  our  nature,  is  the  dry-rot  of  the  soul.  The  spiritual  func- 
tions are  "smothered  in  surmise."  Faith  is  not  a  matter  of  blind 
belief,  of  slavish  assent  and  acceptance,  as  many  no-faith  people 
seem  to  regard  it.  It  is  what  Wordsworth  calls  it,  "  a  passionate 
intuition,"  and  springs  out  of  quickened  and  refined  sentiment, 
out  of  inborn  instincts  which  are  as  cultivable  as  are  any  other 
elements  of  our  complex  nature,  and  which,  too,  may  be 
blunted  beyond  a  consciousness  of  their  possession.  And  when 
one  in  this  latter  state  denies  the  reality  of  faith,  he  is  not  unlike 
one  born  blind  denying  the  reality  of  sight. 

A  reiterated  lesson  in  Browning's  poetry,  and  one  that  results 
from  his  spiritual  theory,  is,  that  the  present  life  is  a  tabernacle- 
life,  and  that  it  can  be  truly  lived  only  as  a  tabernacle-life ;  for 
only  such  a  life  is  compatible  with  the  ever-continued  aspiration 
and  endeavor  which  is  a  condition  of,  and  inseparable  from, 
spiritual  vitality. 

Domizia,  in  the  tragedy  of  '  Luria,'  is  made  to  say  :  — 

"  How  inexhaustibly  the  spirit  grows ! 
One  object,  she  seemed  erewhile  born  to  reach 
With  her  whole  energies  and  die  content,  — 
So  like  a  wall  at  the  world's  edge  it  stood, 
With  naught  beyond  to  live  for,  —  is  that  reached  ?  — 
Already  are  new  undream'd  energies 
Outgrowing  under,  and  extending  farther 
To  a  new  object ;  —  there's  another  world  !  " 

The  dying  John  in  '  A  Death  in  the  Desert,'  is  made  to  say :  — 

"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  stop ; 
That  help  he  needed  once,  and  needs  no  more, 
Having  grown  up  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn : 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

For  he  hath  new  needs,  and  new  helps  to  these. 
This  imports  solely,  man  should  mount  on  each 
Xew  height  in  view ;  the  help  whereby  he  mounts, 
The  ladder-rung  his  foot  has  left,  may  fall, 
Since  all  things  suffer  change  save  God  the  Truth. 
Man  apprehends  him  newly  at  each  stage 
Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  service  done  ; 
And  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what  once  was  proved,' 

And  again  :  — 

"  Man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside, 
Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact, 
And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 
Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use, 
Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark  alone, 
Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are, 
Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 
Such  progress  could  no  more  attend  his  soul 
Were  all  it  struggles  after  found  at  first 
And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute, 
Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 
Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side, 
Where  now  through  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  resu 
Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned,  must  expect 
He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now,  know  at  first; 
What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to-day, 
Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  misknown ; 
Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since  he  learns 
Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a  man, 
Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past  self: 
First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts  to  learn, 
Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his  own  mind, 
Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned  to  law. 
God's  gift  was  that  man  should  conceive  of  truth 
And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mistake, 
As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  indeed. 
The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 
Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 
The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same ; 


39 


40  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout, 

Cries  ever,  '  Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see ' : 

Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 

From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself. 

How  were  it  had  he  cried,  '  I  see  no  face, 

No  breast,  no  feet  i'  the  ineffectual  clay '  ? 

Rather  commend  him  that  he  clapped  his  hands, 

And  laughed,  '  It  is  my  shape  and  lives  again ! ' 

Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on  to  truth, 

Until  yourselves  applaud  the  flesh  indeed 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 

Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way  be  man's ! 

God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a  jet. 

Will  ye  renounce  this  fact  of  creatureship? 

The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no  more, 

Seemed  awhile,  then  returned  to  nothingness , 

But  copies,  Moses  strove  to  make  thereby 

Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time  requires : 

By  these  make  newest  vessels,  reach  the  type ! 

If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your  head, 

Never  to  reach  the  ultimate,  angels1  law, 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 

There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing." 

Browning  has  given  varied  and  beautiful  expressions  to  these 
ideas  thoughout  his  poetry. 

The  soul  must  rest  in  nothing  this  side  of  the  infinite.  If  it  does 
rest  in  anything,  however  relatively  noble  that  thing  may  be, 
whether  art,  or  literature,  or  science,  or  theology,  even,  it  declines 
in  vitality  —  it  torpifies.  However  great  a  conquest  the  combatant 
may  achieve  in  any  of  these  arenas,  "  striding  away  from  the  huge 
gratitude,  his  club  shouldered,  lion-fleece  round  loin  and  flank,"  he 
must  be  "  bound  on  the  next  new  labour,  height  o'er  height  ever 
surmounting  —  destiny's  decree  !  " l 

"  Rejoice  that  man  is  hurled 
From  change  to  change  unceasingly, 
His  soul's  wings  never  furled  ! "  2 

1  '  Aristophanes'  Apology,'  p.  31,  English  ed.       8  '  James  Lee's  Wife/  sect.  6. 


IN  BROWNINGS  POETRY.  4! 

But  this  tabernacle-life,  which  should  ever  look  ahead,  has  its 
claims  which  must  not  be  ignored,  and  its  standards  which  must 
not  be  too  much  above  present  conditions.  Man  must  "  fit  to  the 
finite  his  infinity  "  ('  Sordello  ').  Life  may  be  over-spiritual  as  well 
as  over-worldly.  "  Let  us  cry,  '  All  good  things  are  ours,  nor  soul 
helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul ! '  " 1  The  figure  the 
poet  employs  in  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book '  to  illustrate  the  art 
process,  may  be  as  aptly  applied  to  life  itself —  the  greatest  of  all 
arts.  The  life-artist  must  know  how  to  secure  the  proper  degree 
of  malleability  in  this  mixture  of  flesh  and  soul.  He  must  mingle 
gold  with  gold's  alloy,  and  duly  tempering  both  effect  a  manage- 
able mass.  There  may  be  too  little  of  alloy  in  earth-life  as  well  as 
too  much  —  too  little  to  work  the  gold  and  fashion  it,  not  into  a 
ring,  but  ring-ward.  "On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;  in  the 
heaven  a  perfect  round"  (' Abt.  Vogler ').  "Oh,  if  we  draw  a 
circle  premature,  heedless  of  far  gain,  greedy  for  quick  returns  of 
profit,  sure,  bad  is  our  bargain  "  ('  A  Grammarian's  Funeral '). 

'An  Epistle  containing  the  Strange  Medical  Experiences  of 
Karshish,  the  Arab  Physician,'  is  one  of  Browning's  most  remark- 
able psychological  studies.  It  may  be  said  to  polarize  the  idea,  so 
often  presented  in  his  poetry,  that  doubt  is  a  condition  of  the  vi- 
tality of  faith.  In  this  poem,  the  poet  has  treated  a  supposed  case 
of  a  spiritual  knowledge  "  increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty  — 
heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth,  earth  forced  on  a 
soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven,"  a  spiritual  state,  less  desirable  and 
far  less  favorable  to  the  true  fulfilment  of  the  purposes  of  earth- 
life,  than  that  expressed  in  the  following  lines  from  '  Easter 
Day  ' :  — 

"  A  world  of  spirit  as  of  sense 

Was  plain  to  him,  yet  not  too  plain, 

Which  he  could  traverse,  not  remain 

A  guest  in  :  —  else  were  permanent 

Heaven  on  earth,  which  its  gleams  were  meant 

To  sting  with  hunger  for  full  light,"  etc. 

1  '  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra.' 


42  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

The  Epistle  is  a  subtle  representation  of  a  soul  conceived  with 
absolute  spiritual  standards,  while  obliged  to  live  in  a  world  where 
all  standards  are  relative  and  determined  by  the  circumstances  and 
limitations  of  its  situation. 

The  spiritual  life  has  been  too  distinctly  revealed  for  fulfilling 
aright  the  purposes  of  earth-life,  purposes  which  the  soul,  while  in 
the  flesh,  must  not  ignore,  since,  in  the  words  of  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra, 
"  all  good  things  are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than 
flesh  helps  soul."  The  poem  may  also  be  said  to  represent  what 
is,  or  should  be,  the  true  spirit  of  the  man  of  science.  In  spite  of 
what  Karshish  writes,  apologetically,  he  betrays  his  real  attitude 
throughout,  towards  the  wonderful  spiritual  problem  involved. 

It  is,  as  many  of  Browning's  Monologues  are,  a  double  picture 
—  one  direct,  the  other  reflected,  and  the  reflected  one  is  as  dis- 
tinct as  the  direct.  The  composition  also  bears  testimony  to 
Browning's  own  soul-healthfulness.  Though  the  spiritual  bearing 
of  things  is  the  all-in-all,  in  his  poetry,  the  robustness  of  his  na- 
ture, the  fulness  and  splendid  equilibrium  of  his  life,  protect  him 
against  an  inarticulate  mysticism.  Browning  is,  in  the  widest  and 
deepest  sense  of  the  word,  the  healthiest  of  all  living  poets ;  and 
in  general  constitution  the  most  Shakespearian. 

What  he  makes  Shakespeare  say,  in  the  Monologue  entitled 
'  At  the  Mermaid,'  he  could  say,  with  perhaps  greater  truth,  in  his 
own  person,  than  Shakespeare  could  have  said  it :  — 

"  Have  you  found  your  life  distasteful  ? 

My  life  did  and  does  smack  sweet. 
Was  your  youth  of  pleasure  wasteful  ? 

Mine  I  save  and  hold  complete. 
Do  your  joys  with  age  diminish? 

When  mine  fail  me,  I'll  complain. 
Must  in  death  your  daylight  finish? 

My  sun  sets  to  rise  again. 

I  find  earth  not  gray  but  rosy, 
Heaven  not  grim  but  fair  of  hue. 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

Do  I  stoop?     I  pluck  a  posy. 

Do  I  stand  and  stare?    All's  blue." 


43 


It  is  the  spirit  expressed  in  these  lines  which  has  made  his 
poetry  so  entirely  constructive.  With  the  destructive  spirit  he  has 
no  affinities.  The  poetry  of  despair  and  poets  with  the  dumps 
he  cannot  away  with. 

Perhaps  the  most  comprehensive  passage  in  Browning's  poetry, 
expressive  of  his  ideal  of  a  complete  man  under  the  conditions  of 
earth-life,  is  found  in  '  Colombe's  Birthday,'  Act  IV.  Valence 
says  of  Prince  Berthold  :  — 

"  He  gathers  earth's  whole  good  into  his  arms,  standing,  as 
man,  now,  stately,  strong  and  wise  —  marching  to  fortune,  not  sur- 
prised by  her :  one  great  aim,  like  a  guiding  star  above  —  which 
tasks  strength,  wisdom,  stateliness,  to  lift  his  manhood  to  the 
height  that  takes  the  prize  ;  a  prize  not  near  —  lest  overlooking 
earth,  he  rashly  spring  to  seize  it  —  nor  remote,  so  that  he  rests 
upon  his  path  content :  but  day  by  day,  while  shimmering  grows 
shine,  and  the  faint  circlet  prophesies  the  orb,  he  sees  so  much  as, 
just  evolving  these,  the  stateliness,  the  wisdom,  and  the  strength, 
to  due  completion,  will  suffice  this  life,  and  lead  him  at  his  grand- 
est to  the  grave." 

Browning  fully  recognizes,  to  use  an  expression  in  his  '  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi,'  fully  recognizes  "the  value  and  significance  of 
flesh."  A  healthy  and  well-toned  spiritual  life  is  with  him  the 
furthest  removed  from  asceticism.  To  the  passage  from  his 
'  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra '  already  quoted,  "  all  good  things  are  ours,  nor 
soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul,"  should  be 
added  what  David  sings  to  Saul,  in  the  poem  entitled  'Saul.' 
Was  the  full  physical  life  ever  more  beautifully  sung? 

"  Oh  !  our  manhood's  prime  vigour  !  no  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing,  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living  !  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 


44 


THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 


And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 

And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust  divine, 

And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of  wine, 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 

That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !  how  fit  to  employ 

All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  for  ever  in  joy!  " 

Though  this  is  said  in  the  person  of  the  beautiful  shepherd-boy, 
David,  whoever  has  lived  any  time  with  Browning,  through  his 
poetry,  must  be  assured  that  it  is  also  an  expression  of  the  poet's 
own  experience  of  the  glory  of  flesh.  He  has  himself  been  an 
expression  of  the  fullest  physical  life  :  and  now,  in  his  five  and 
seventieth  year,  since  the  yth  of  last  May,  he  preserves  both  mind 
and  body  in  a  magnificent  vigor.  If  his  soul  had  been  lodged  in 
a  sickly,  rickety  body,  he  could  hardly  have  written  these  lines 
from  '  Saul.'  Nor  could  he  have  written  '  Caliban  upon  Setebos,' 
especially  the  opening  lines  :  "  Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of 
day  is  best,  flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire,  with  elbows 
wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin.  And,  while  he  kicks  both 
feet  in  the  cool  slush,  and  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things 
course,  run  hi  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh :  and  while 
above  his  head  a  pompion-plant,  coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow 
its  eye,  creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard,  and  now 
a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside,  and  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch 
and  crunch,  —  he  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 
and  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web  (meshes  of  fire,  some  great 
fish  breaks  at  times),  and  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he  please, 
touching  that  other,  whom  his  dam  called  God." 

There's  a  grand  passage"  in  '  Balaustion's  Adventure  :  including 
a  transcript  from  Euripides,'  descriptive  of  Herakles  as  he  re- 
turns, after  his  conflict  with  Death,  leading  back  Alkestis,  which 
shows  the  poet's  sympathy  with  the  physical.  The  passage  is 
more  valuable  as  revealing  that  sympathy,  from  the  fact  that  it's 
one  of  his  additions  to  Euripides  :  — 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY.  45 

"there  stood  the  strength, 
Happy  as  always  ;  something  grave,  perhaps ; 
The  great  vein-cordage  on  the  fret-worked  brow, 
Black-swollen,  beaded  yet  with  battle-drops 
The  yellow  hair  o'  the  hero  !  —  his  big  frame 
A-quiver  with  each  muscle  sinking  back 
Into  the  sleepy  smooth  it  leaped  from  late. 
Under  the  great  guard  of  one  arm,  there  leant 
A  shrouded  something,  live  and  woman-like, 
Propped  by  the  heart-beats  'neath  the  lion-coat. 
When  he  had  finished  his  survey,  it  seemed, 
The  heavings  of  the  heart  began  subside, 
The  helping  breath  returned,  and  last  the  smile 
Shone  out,  all  Herakles  was  back  again, 
As  the  words  followed  the  saluting  hand." 

It  is  not  so  much  the  glory  of  flesh  which  Euripides  represents 
in  Herakles,  as  the  indulgence  of  appetite,  at  a  time,  too,  when 
that  indulgence  is  made  to  appear  the  more  culpable  and  gross. 

This  idea  of  "  the  value  and  significance  of  flesh,"  it  is  impor- 
tant to  note,  along  with  the  predominant  spiritual  bearing  of 
Browning's  poetry.  It  articulates  everywhere  the  spiritual,  so  to 
speak  —  makes  it  healthy  and  robust,  and  protects  it  against 
volatility  and  from  running  into  mysticism. 


2.    THE  IDEA  OF  PERSONALITY  AS  EMBODIED  IN  BROWNING'S 
POETRY. 

A  cardinal  idea  in  Browning's  poetry  is  the  regeneration  of  men 
through  a  personality  who  brings  fresh  stuff  for  them  to  mould, 
interpret,  and  prove  right,  —  new  feeling  fresh  from  God  —  whose 
life  re-teaches  them  what  life  should  be,  what  faith  is,  loyalty  and 
simpleness,  all  once  revealed,  but  taught  them  so  long  since  that 
they  have  but  mere  tradition  of  the  fact,  —  truth  copied  falteringly 
from  copies  faint,  the  early  traits  all  dropped  away.  ('  Lima.') 
The  intellect  plays  a  secondary  part.  Its  place  is  behind  the 
instinctive,  spiritual  antennae  which  conduct  along  their  trembling 


46  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

lines,  fresh  stuff  for  the  intellect  to  stamp  and  keep  —  fresh  in- 
stinct for  it  to  translate  into  law. 

"A  people  is  but  the  attempt  of  many  to  rise  to  the  completer 
life  of  one."  ('  A  Soul's  Tragedy.') 

Only  the  man  who  supplies  new  feeling  fresh  from  God,  quick- 
ens and  regenerates  the  race,  and  sets  it  on  the  King's  highway 
from  which  it  has  wandered  into  by-ways  —  not  the  man  of 
mere  intellect,  of  unkindled  soul,  that  supplies  only  stark-naked 
thought.  Through  the  former,  "  God  stooping  shows  sufficient  of 
His  light  for  those  i'  the  dark  to  rise  by."  ('  R.  and  B.,  Pom- 
pilia.')  In  him  men  discern  "  the  dawn  of  the  next  nature,  the 
new  man  whose  will  they  venture  in  the  place  of  theirs,  and  whom 
they  trust  to  find  them  out  new  ways  to  the  new  heights  which 
yet  he  only  sees."  ('  Luria.')  It  is  by  reaching  towards,  and 
doing  fealty  to,  the  greater  spirit  which  attracts  and  absorbs  their 
own,  that,  "  trace  by  trace  old  memories  reappear,  old  truth  re- 
turns, their  slow  thought  does  its  work,  and  all's  re-known." 

('  Luria.') 

"  Some  existence  like  a  pact 
And  protest  against  Chaos,  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  fullest  effluence  of  the  finest  mind, 

All  in  degree,  no  way  diverse  in  kind 

From  minds  above  it,  minds  which,  more  or  less 

Lofty  or  low,  move  seeking  to  impress 

Themselves  on  somewhat ;  but  one  mind  has  climbed 

Step  after  step,  by  just  ascent  sublimed. 

Thought  is  the  soul  of  act,  and,  stage  by  stage, 

Is  soul  from  body  still  to  disengage, 

As  tending  to  a  freedom  which  rejects 

Such  help,  and  incorporeally  affects 

The  world,  producing  deeds  but  not  by  deeds, 

Swaying,  in  others,  frames  itself  exceeds, 

Assigning  them  the  simpler  tasks  it  used 

To  patiently  perform  till  Song  produced 

Acts,  by  thoughts  only,  for  the  mind  :  divest 

Mind  of  e'en  Thought,  and,  lo,  God's  unexpressed 

Will  dawns  above  us  ! "    ('  Sordello.') 


IN  BROWNIN&S  POETRY.  47 

A  dangerous  tendency  of  civilization  is  that  towards  crystalliza- 
tion —  towards  hardened,  inflexible  conventionalisms  which  "  re- 
fuse the  soul  its  way." 

Such  crystallization,  such  conventionalisms,  yield  only  to  the 
dissolving  power  of  the  spiritual  warmth  of  life-full  personalities. 

The  quickening,  regenerating  power  of  personality  is  everywhere 
exhibited  in  Browning's  poetry.  It  is  emphasized  in  '  Luria,' 
and  in  the  Monologues  of  the  Canon  Caponsacchi  and  Pompilia, 
in  the  '  Ring  and  the  Book ' ;  it  shines  out,  or  glints  forth,  in 
'  Colombe's  Birthday,'  in  '  Saul,'  in  '  Sordello,'  and  in  all  the  Love 
poems.  I  would  say,  en  passant,  that  Love  is  always  treated  by 
Browning  as  a  spiritual  claim  ;  while  duty  may  be  only  a  worldly 
one.  See  especially  the  poem  entitled  '  Bifurcation.'  In  '  Balaus- 
tion's  Adventure  :  including  a  transcript  from  Euripides,'  the  re- 
generating power  of  personality  may  be  said  to  be  the  leavening 
idea,  which  the  poet  has  introduced  into  the  Greek  play.  It  is 
entirely  absent  in  the  original.  It  baptizes,  so  to  speak,  the  Greek 
play,  and  converts  it  into  a  Christian  poem.  It  is  the  "new 
truth  "  of  the  poet's  '  Christmas  Eve.' 

After  the  mourning  friends  have  spoken  their  words  of  conso- 
lation to  the  bereaved  husband,  the  last  word  being,  "  Dead,  thy 
wife  —  living,  the  love  she  left,"  Admetos  "  turned  on  the  comfort, 
with  no  tears,  this  time.  He  was  beginning  to  be  like  his  wife.  I 
told  you  of  that  pressure  to  the  point,  word  slow  pursuing  word 
in  monotone,  Alkestis  spoke  with ;  so  Admetos,  now,  solemnly 
bore  the  burden  of  the  truth.  And  as  the  voice  of  him  grew, 
gathered  strength,  and  groaned  on,  and  persisted  to  the  end,  we 
felt  how  deep  had  been  descent  in  grief,  and  with  what  change 
he  came  up  now  to  light,  and  left  behind  such  littleness  as  tears." 

And  when  Alkestis  was  brought  back  by  Herakles,  "the  hero 
twitched  the  veil  off :  and  there  stood,  with  such  fixed  eyes  and 
such  slow  smile,  Alkestis'  silent  self !  It  was  the  crowning  grace 
of  that  great  heart  to  keep  back  joy  :  procrastinate  the  truth  until 
the  wife,  who  had  made  proof  and  found  the  husband  wanting, 
might  essay  once  more,  hear,  see,  and  feel  him  renovated  now — 


48  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

able  to  do,  now,  all  herself  had  done,  risen  to  the  height  of  her  : 
so,  hand  in  hand,  the  two  might  go  together,  live  and  die." 
(Compare  with  this  the  restoration  of  Hermione  to  her  husband, 
in  '  The  Winter's  Tale,'  Act  V.) 

A  good  intellect  has  been  characterized  as  the  chorus  of  Divinity. 
Substitute  for  "  good  intellect,"  an  exalted  magnetic  personality, 
and  the  thought  is  deepened.  An  exalted  magnetic  personality  is 
the  chorus  of  Divinity,  which,  in  the  great  Drama  of  Humanity, 
guides  and  interprets  the  feelings  and  sympathies  of  other  souls 
and  thus  adjusts  their  attitudes  towards  the  Divine.  It  is  not  the 
highest  function  of  such  a  personality  to  teach,  but  rather  to 
inform,  in  the  earlier  and  deeper  sense  of  the  word.  Whatever 
mere  doctrine  he  may  promulgate,  is  of  inferior  importance  to  the 
spontaneous  action  of  his  concrete  life,  in  which  the  True,  the 
Beautiful,  and  the  Good,  breathe  and  live.  What  is  born  in  the 
brain  dies  there,  it  may  be ;  at  best,  it  does  not,  and  cannot  of  it- 
self, lead  up  to  the  full  concrete  life.  It  is  only  through  the  spon- 
taneous and  unconscious  fealty  which  an  inferior  does  to  a  superior 
soul  (a  fealty  resulting  from  the  responsiveness  of  spirit  to  spirit), 
that  the  former  is  slowly  and  silently  transformed  into  a  more  or 
less  approximate  image  of  the  latter.  The  stronger  personality 
leads  the  weaker  on  by  paths  which  the  weaker  knows  not,  upward 
he  leads  him,  though  his  steps  be  slow  and  vacillating.  Humility, 
in  the  Christian  sense,  means  this  fealty  to  the  higher.  It  doesn't 
mean  self-abasement,  self- depreciation,  as  it  has  been  understood 
to  mean,  by  both  the  Romish  and  the  Protestant  Church.  Pride, 
in  the  Christian  sense,  is  the  closing  of  the  doors  of  the  soul  to  a 
great  magnetic  guest. 

Browning  beautifully  expresses  the  transmission  of  personality  in 
his  '  Saul.'  But  according  to  Browning's  idea,  personality  cannot 
strictly  be  said  to  be  transmitted.  Personality  rather  evokes  its 
like  from  other  souls,  which  are  "all  in  degree,  no  way  diverse  in 
kind."  (<  Sordello.') 

David  has  reached  an  advanced  stage  in  his  symbolic  song  to 
Saul.  He  thinks  now  what  next  he  shall  urge  "to  sustain  him 


BROWNINGS  POETRY. 


49 


where  song  had  restored  him? — Song  filled  to  the  verge  his  cup 
with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it  yields  of  mere  fruitage, 
the  strength  and  the  beauty  :  beyond,  on  what  fields  glean  a  vintage 
more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the  eye  and  bring  blood  to 
the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup  they  put  by?"  So  once 
more  the  string  of  the  harp  makes  response  to  his  spirit,  and  he 
sings  :  — 

"  In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,  —  how  its  stem  trembled 

first 

Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler ;  then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round ;  and  thou  mindest  when  these,  too,  in 

turn 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect ;  yet  more  was  to 

learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.     Our  dates  shall  we 

slight, 

When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow?  or  care  for  the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them?     Not  so!  stern 

and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm-wine  shall 

staunch 

Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for !  the  spirit  be  thine  ! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  inconscious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running!  each  deed  thou  hast 

done 

Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world ;  until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him,  though  tempests 

efface, 

Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime,  — so,  each  ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardour,  till  they  too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons  :  ivho  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and  the  North 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  gertn  of." 


50  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

In  the  concluding  lines  is  set  forth  what  might  be  characterized 
as  the  apostolic  succession  of  a  great  personality  —  the  succession 
of  those  "  who  in  turn  fill  the  South  and  the  North  with  the  radi- 
ance his  deed  was  the  germ  of." 

What  follows  in  David's  song  gives  expression  to  the  other  mode 
of  transmitting  a  great  personality  —  that  is,  through  records  that 
"give  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part  in  his  being," 
and  also  to  what  those  records  owe  their  effectiveness,  and  are 
saved  from  becoming  a  dead  letter. 

"Is  Saul  dead?  In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb —  bid  arise 
A  grey  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slumbers  :  whose  fame  would 

ye  know? 

Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record  shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe,  —  Such  was  Saul,  so  he  did  ; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid,  — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised  there  !   Which  fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  'tis  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and  record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story,  —  the  statesman's  great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.     The  river's  a-wave 
With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when  prophet-winds  rave  : 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part 
In  thy  being !     Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God  that  thou  art ! " 

What  is  said  in  this  passage  is  applicable  to  the  record  we  have 
of  Christ's  life  upon  earth.  Christianity  has  only  to  a  very  limited 
extent  been  perpetuated  through  the  letter  of  the  New  Testament. 
It  has  been  perpetuated  chiefly  through  transmissions  of  personal- 
ities, through  apostolic  succession,  in  a  general  sense,  and  through 
embodiments  of  his  spirit  in  art  and  literature  —  "  the  statesman's 
great  word,"  "the  poet's  sweet  comment."  Were  it  not  for  this 
transmission  of  the  quickening  power  of  personality,  the  New 
Testament  would  be  to  a  great  extent  a  dead  letter.  It  owes  its 
significance  to  the  quickened  spirit  which  is  brought  to  the  reading 
of  it.  The  personality  of  Christ  could  not  be,  through  a  plastic 


Iff  BROWNINGS  POETRY.  5! 

sympathy,  moulded  out  of  the  New  Testament  records,  without  the 
aid  of  intermediate  personalities. 

The  Messianic  idea  was  not  peculiar  to  the  Jewish  race — the 
idea  of  a  Person  gathering  up  within  himself,  in  an  effective  ful- 
ness and  harmony,  the  restorative  elements  of  humanity,  which 
have  lost  their  power  through  dispersion  and  consequent  obscura- 
tion. There  have  been  Messiahs  of  various  orders  and  ranks  in 
every  age,  —  great  personalities  that  have  realized  to  a  greater  or 
less  extent  (though  there  has  been  but  one,  the  God-Man,  who 
fully  realized),  the  spiritual  potentialities  in  man,  that  have  stood 
upon  the  sharpest  heights  as  beacons  to  their  fellows.  In  the  in- 
dividual the  species  has,  as  it  were,  been  gathered  up,  epitomized, 
and  intensified,  and  he  has  thus  been  a  prophecy,  and  to  some 
extent  a  fulfilment  of  human  destiny. 

"  A  poet  must  be  earth's  essential  king,"  as  Sordello  asserts,  and 
he  is  that  by  virtue  of  his  exerting  or  shedding  the  influence  of  his 
essential  personality.  "  If  caring  not  to  exert  the  proper  essence 
of  his  royalty,  he,  the  poet,  trifle  malapert  with  accidents  instead 
—  good  things  assigned  as  heralds  of  a  better  thing  behind  "  —  he 
is  "  deposed  from  his  kingly  throne,  and  his  glory  is  taken  from 
him."  Of  himself,  Sordello  says  :  "  The  power  he  took  most  pride 
to  test,  whereby  all  forms  of  life  had  been  professed  at  pleasure, 
forms  already  on  the  earth,  was  but  a  means  of  power  beyond, 
whose  birth  should,  in  its  novelty,  be  kingship's  proof.  Now, 
whether  he  came  near  or  kept  aloof  the  several  forms  he  longed  to 
imitate,  not  there  the  kingship  lay,  he  sees  too  late.  Those  forms, 
unalterable  first  as  last,  proved  him  her  copier,  not  the  protoplast 
of  nature  :  what  could  come  of  being  free  by  action  to  exhibit  tree 
for  tree,  bird,  beast,  for  beast  and  bird,  or  prove  earth  bore  one 
veritable  man  or  woman  more  ?  Means  to  an  end  such  proofs  are  : 
what  the  end?" 

The  answer  given  involves  the  great  Browning  idea  of  the  quick- 
ening power  of  personality  :  "  Let  essence,  whatsoe'er  it  be,  extend 
—  never  contract !  " 

By  " essence "  we  must  understand  that  which  "constitutes  man's 


52  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

self,  is  what  Is,"  as  the  dying  John,  in  'A  Death  in  the  Desert,'  ex- 
presses it  —  that  which  backs  the  active  powers  and  the  conscious 
intellect,  "subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no." 

"  Let  essence,  whatsoe'er  it  be,  extend —  never  contract !  "  Sor- 
dello  says.  "  Already  you  include  the  multitude  " ;  that  is,  you 
gather  up  in  yourself,  in  an  effective  fulness  and  harmony,  what  lies 
scattered  and  ineffective  in  the  multitude ;  "  then  let  the  multitude 
include  yourself"  ;  that  is,  be  substantiated,  essenced  with  yourself; 
"  and  the  result  were  new  :  themselves  before,  the  multitude  turn 
you  "  (become  yourself) .  "  This  were  to  live  and  move  and  have, 
in  them,  your  being,  and  secure  a  diadem  you  should  transmit  (be- 
cause no  cycle  yearns  beyond  itself,  but  on  itself  returns)  when  the 
full  sphere  in  wane,  the  world  o'erlaid  long  since  with  you,  shall 
have  in  turn  obeyed  some  orb  still  prouder,  some  displayer,  still 
more  potent  than  the  last,  of  human  will,  and  some  new  king 
depose  the  old." 

This  is  a  most  important  passage  to  get  hold  of  in  studying 
Browning.  It  may  be  said  to  gather  up  Browning's  philosophy  of 
life  in  a  nutshell. 

There's  a  passage  to  the  same  effect  in  '  Balaustion's  Adventure,' 
in  regard  to  the  transmission  of  the  poet's  essence.  The  enthusi- 
astic Rhodian  girl,  Balaustion,  after  she  has  told  the  play  of 
Euripides,  years  after  her  adventure,  to  her  four  friends,  Petals, 
Phullis,  Charop£,  and  Chrusion,  says  :  — 

"  I  think  I  see  how  .  .  .  you,  I,  or  any  one,  might  mould  a 
new  Admetos,  new  Alkestis.  Ah,  that  brave  bounty  of  poets,  the 
one  royal  race  that  ever  was,  or  will  be,  in  this  world  !  They  give 
no  gift  that  bounds  itself,  and  ends  i'  the  giving  and  the  taking : 
theirs  so  breeds  i'  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  taker,  so  transmutes 
the  man  who  only  was  a  man  before,  that  he  grows  god-like  in  his 
turn,  can  give  —  he  also  :  share  the  poet's  privilege,  bring  forth 
new  good,  new  beauty  from  the  old.  As  though  the  cup  that  gave 
the  wine,  gave  too  the  god's  prolific  giver  of  the  grape,  that  vine, 
was  wont  to  find  out,  fawn  around  his  footstep,  springing  still  to 
bless  the  dearth,  at  bidding  of  a  Mainad." 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 


53 


3.    ART  AS  AN  INTERMEDIATE  AGENCY  OF  PERSONALITY. 

If  Browning's  idea  of  the  quickening,  the  regeneration,  the 
rectification  of  personality,  through  a  higher  personality,  be  fully 
comprehended,  his  idea  of  the  great  function  of  Art,  as  an  interme- 
diate agency  of  personality,  will  become  plain.  To  emphasize  the 
latter  idea  may  be  said  to  be  the  ultimate  purpose  of  his  master- 
piece, '  The  Ring  and  the  Book.' 

The  complexity  of  the  circumstances  involved  in  the  Roman 
murder  case,  adapts  it  admirably  to  the  poet's  purpose  —  namely, 
to  exhibit  the  swervings  of  human  judgment  in  spite  of  itself,  and 
the  conditions  upon  which  the  rectification  of  that  judgment 
depends. 

This  must  be  taken,  however,  as  only  the  articulation,  the  frame- 
work, of  the  great  poem.  It  is  richer  in  materials,  of  the  most 
varied  character,  than  any  other  long  poem  in  existence.  To 
notice  one  feature  of  the  numberless  features  of  the  poem,  which 
might  be  noticed,  Browning's  deep  and  subtle  insight  into  the 
genius  of  the  Romish  Church  is  shown  in  it  more  fully  than  in  any 
other  of  his  poems,  —  though  special  phases  of  that  genius  are  dis- 
tinctly exhibited  in  numerous  poems :  a  remarkable  one  being 
'The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at  St.  Praxed's  Church.'  It  is 
questionable  whether  any  work  of  any  kind  has  ever  exhibited  that 
genius  more  fully  and  distinctly  than  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book ' 
exhibits  it.  The  reader  breathes  throughout  the  ecclesiastical 
atmosphere  of  the  Eternal  City. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  the  several  monologues  of  which 
the  poem  consists,  with  the  exception  of  those  of  the  Canon 
Caponsacchi,  Pompilia,  and  the  Pope,  are  each  curious  and  subtle 
and  varied  exponents  of  the  workings,  without  the  guidance  of  in- 
stinct at  the  heart,  of  the  prepossessed,  prejudiced  intellect,  and  of 
the  sources  of  its  swerving  into  error.  What  is  said  of  the  "  feel 
after  the  vanished  truth  "  in  the  monologue  entitled  '  Half  Rome ' 
—  the  speaker  being  a  jealous  husband  —  will  serve  to  charac- 
terize, in  a  general  way,  "  the  feel  after  truth  "  exhibited  in  the 


54 


THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 


other  monologues  :  "  honest  enough,  as  the  way  is  :  all  the  same, 
harboring  in  the  centre  of  its  sense  a  hidden  germ  of  failure,  shy 
but  sure,  should  neutralize  that  honesty  and  leave  that  feel  for 
truth  at  fault,  as  the  way  is  too.  Some  prepossession,  such  as 
starts  amiss,  by  but  a  hair's-breadth  at  the  shoulder-blade,  the  arm 
o'  the  feeler,  dip  he  ne'er  so  brave ;  and  so  leads  waveringly,  lets 
fall  wide  o'  the  mark  his  finger  meant  to  find,  and  fix  truth  at  the 
bottom,  that  deceptive  speck." 

The  poet  could  hardly  have  employed  a  more  effective  meta- 
phor in  which  to  embody  the  idea  of  mental  swerving.  The 
several  monologues  all  going  over  the  same  ground,  are  artistically 
justified  in  their  exhibiting,  each  of  them,  a  quite  distinct  form  of 
this  swerving.  For  the  ultimate  purpose  of  the  poet,  it  needed  to 
be  strongly  emphasized.  The  student  of  the  poem  is  amazed, 
long  before  he  gets  over  all  these  monologues,  at  the  Protean  capa- 
bilities of  the  poet's  own  intellect.  It  takes  all  conceivable  atti- 
tudes toward  the  case,  and  each  seems  to  be  a  perfectly  easy  one. 

These  monologues  all  lead  up  to  the  great  moral  of  the  poem, 
which  is  explicitly  set  forth  at  the  end,  namely,  "  that  our  human 
speech  is  naught,  our  human  testimony  false,  our  fame  and  human 
estimation,  words  and  wind.  Why  take  the  artistic  way  to  prove 
so  much?  Because,  it  is  the  glory  and  good  of  Art,  that  Art 
remains  the  one  way  possible  of  speaking  truth,  to  mouths  like 
mine,  at  least.  How  look  a  brother  in  the  face  and  say,  Thy  right 
is  wrong,  eyes  hast  thou  yet  art  blind,  thine  ears  are  stuffed  and 
stopped,  despite  their  length :  and,  oh,  the  foolishness  thou  count- 
est  faith  !  Say  this  as  silvery  as  tongue  can  troll  —  the  anger  of 
the  man  may  be  endured,  the  shrug,  the  disappointed  eyes  of  him 
are  not  so  bad  to  bear  —  but  here's  the  plague,  that  all  this  trouble 
comes  of  telling  truth,  which  truth,  by  when  it  reaches  him,  looks 
false,  seems  to  be  just  the  thing  it  would  supplant,  nor  recogniz- 
able by  whom  it  left :  while  falsehood  would  have  done  the  work 
of  truth.  But  Art,  —  wherein  man  nowise  speaks  to  men,  only  to 
mankind,  —  Art  may  tell  a  truth  obliquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed 
the  thought"  that  is,  bring  what  is  implicit  within  the  soul,  into  the 


IN  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 


55 


right  attitude  to  become  explicit —  bring  about  a  silent  adjustment 
through  sympathy  induced  by  the  concrete ;  in  other  words,  pre- 
pare the  way  for  the  perception  ot  the  truth  —  "  do  the  thing  shall 
breed  the  thought,  nor  wrong  the  thought  missing  the  mediate 
word  " ;  meaning,  that  Art,  so  to  speak,  is  the  word  made  flesh,  — 
is  the  truth,  and,  as  Art,  has  nothing  directly  to  do  with  the 
explicit.  "  So  may  you  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth,  be- 
yond mere  imagery  on  the  wall,  —  so,  note  by  note,  bring  music 
from  your  mind,  deeper  than  ever  the  Andante  dived,  —  so  write 
a  book  shall  mean  beyond  the  facts,  suffice  the  eye  and  save  the 
soul  beside." 

And  what  is  the  inference  the  poet  would  have  us  draw  from 
this  passage  ?  It  is,  that  the  life  and  efficacy  of  Art  depends  on 
the  personality  of  the  artist,  which  "  has  informed,  transpierced, 
thridded,  and  so  thrown  fast  the  facts  else  free,  as  right  through 
ring  and  ring  runs  the  djereed  and  binds  the  loose,  one  bar  with- 
out a  break."  And  it  is  really  this  fusion  of  the  artist's  soul, 
which  kindles,  quickens,  informs  those  who  contemplate,  respond 
to,  reproduce  sympathetically  within  themselves  the  greater  spirit 
which  attracts  and  absorbs  their  own.  The  work  of  Art  is  apoca- 
lyptic of  the  artist's  own  personality.  It  cannot  be  impersonal. 
As  is  the  temper  of  his  spirit,  so  is,  must  be,  the  temper  of  his 
Art  product.1  It  is  hard  to  believe,  almost  impossible  to  believe, 
that  '  Titus  Andronicus '  could  have  been  written  by  Shakespeare, 
the  external  testimony  to  the  authorship,  notwithstanding.  Even 
if  he  had  written  it  as  a  burlesque  of  such  a  play  as  Marlow's 
'  Jew  of  Malta,'  he  could  not  have  avoided  some  revelation  of  that 
sense  of  moral  proportion  which  is  omnipresent  in  his  Plays. 
Rut  I  can  find  no  Shakespeare  in  '  Titus  Andronicus.'  Are  we 
not  certain  what  manner  of  man  Shakespeare  was  from  his  Works 
(notwithstanding  that  critics  are  ever  asserting  their  impersonality) 

1  "  And  long  it  was  not  after,  when  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he 
who  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable 
things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem."  —  MILTON'S  Apology  for  Smectym- 
ntius. 


56  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

—  far  more  certain  than  if  his  biography  had  been  written  by  one 
who  knew  him  all  his  life,  and  sustained  to  him  the  most  intimate 
relations  ?  We  know  Shakespeare  —  or  he  can  be  known,  if  the  re- 
quisite conditions  are  met,  better,  perhaps,  than  any  other  great 
author  that  ever  lived  —  know,  in  the  deepest  sense  of  the  word, 
in  a  sense  other  than  that  in  which  we  know  Dr.  Johnson,  through 
Boswell's  Biography.  The  moral  proportion  which  is  so  signal  a 
characteristic  of  his  Plays  could  not  have  been  imparted  to  them 
by  the  conscious  intellect.  It  was  shed  from  his  spiritual  constitu- 
tion. 

By  "  speaking  truth  "  in  Art's  way,  Browning  means,  inducing  a 
right  attitude  toward,  a  full  and  free  sympathy  with,  the  True, 
which  is  a  far  more  important  and  effective  way  of  speaking  truth 
than  delivering  truth  in  re.  A  work  of  Art,  worthy  of  the  name, 
need  not  be  true  to  fact,  but  must  be  true  in  its  spiritual  attitude, 
and  being  thus  true,  it  will  tend  to  induce  a  corresponding  attitude 
in  those  who  do  fealty  to  it.  It  will  have  the  influence,  though  in 
an  inferior  degree,  it  may  be,  of  a  magnetic  personality.  Person- 
ality is  the  ultimate  source  of  spiritual  quickening  and  adjustment. 
Literature  and  all  forms  of  Art  are  but  the  intermediate  agencies 
of  personalities.  The  artist  cannot  be  separated  from  his  art. 
As  is  the  artist  so  must  be  his  art.  The  aura,  so  to  speak,  of  a 
great  work  of  Art,  must  come  from  the  artist's  own  personality. 
The  spiritual  worth  of  Shakespeare's  '  Winter's  Tale '  is  not  at  all 
impaired  by  the  fact  that  Bohemia  is  made  a  maritime  country, 
that  Whitsun  pastorals  and  Christian  burial,  and  numerous  other 
features  of  Shakespeare's  own  age,  are  introduced  into  pagan 
times,  that  Queen  Hermione  speaks  of  herself  as  a  daughter  of  the 
Emperor  of  Russia,  that  her  statue  is  represented  as  executed  by 
Julio  Romano,  an  Italian  painter  of  the  i6th  century,  that  a 
puritan  sings  psalms  to  hornpipes,  and,  to  crown  all,  that  messen- 
gers are  sent  to  consult  the  oracle  of  Apollo,  at  Delphi,  which  is  rep- 
resented as  an  island  !  All  this  jumble,  this  gallimaufry,  I  say,  does 
not  impair  the  spiritual  worth  of  the  play.  As  an  Art-product, 

invites  a  rectified  attitude  toward  the  True  and  the  Sweet. 


IN  BROWNINGS  POETRY.  57 

If  we  look  at  the  letter  of  the  trial  scene  in  '  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,'  it  borders  on  the  absurd ;  but  if  we  look  at  its  spirit,  we 
see  the  Shakespearian  attitude  of  soul  which  makes  for  righteous- 
ness, for  the  righteousness  which  is  inherent  in  the  moral  constitu- 
tion of  the  universe. 

The  inmost,  secretest  life  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  came  from  the 
personality,  the  inmost,  secretest  life,  of  the  man  Shakespeare. 
We  might,  with  the  most  alert  sagacity,  note  and  tabulate  and 
aggregate  his  myriad  phenomenal  merits  as  a  dramatic  writer,  but 
we  might  still  be  very  far  from  that  something  back  of  them  all,  or 
rather  that  immanent  something,  that  mystery  of  personality,  that 
microcosmos,  that  "  inmost  centre,  where  truth  abides  in  fulness," 
as  Browning  makes  Paracelsus  characterize  it,  "  constituting  man's 
self,  is  what  Is,"  as  he  makes  the  dying  John  characterize  it,  in 
*  A  Death  in  the  Desert,'  that  "  innermost  of  the  inmost,  most 
interior  of  the  interne,"  as  Mrs.  Browning  characterizes  it,  "  the 
hidden  Soul,"  as  Dallas  characterizes  it,  which  is  projected  into, 
and  constitutes  the  soul  of,  the  Plays,  and  which  is  reached 
through  an  unconscious  and  mystic  sympathy  on  the  part  of  him 
who  habitually  communes  with  and  does  fealty  to  them.  That 
personality,  that  living  force,  co-operated  spontaneously  and  uncon- 
sciously with  the  conscious  powers,  in  the  creative  process ;  and 
when  we  enter  into  a  sympathetic  communion  with  the  concrete 
result  of  that  creative  process,  our  own  mysterious  personalities, 
being  essentially  identical  with,  though  less  quickened  than, 
Shakespeare's,  respond,  though  it  may  be  but  feebly,  to  his.  This 
response  is  the  highest  result  of  the  study  of  Shakespeare's 
works. 

It  is  a  significant  fact  that  Shakespearian  critics  and  editors,  for 
nearly  two  centuries,  have  been  a  genus  irritabile,  to  which  genus 
Shakespeare  himself  certainly  did  not  belong.  The  explanation 
may  partly  be,  that  they  have  been  too  much  occupied  with  the 
letter,  and  have  fretted  their  nerves  in  angry  dispute  about  readings 
and  interpretations  ;  as  theologians  have  done  in  their  study  of  the 
sacred  records,  instead  of  endeavoring  to  reach,  through  the  letter, 


5  8  THE  IDEA    OF  PERSONALITY 

the  personality  of  which  the  letter  is  but  a  manifestation  more  or 
less  imperfect.  To  know  a  personality  is,  of  course,  a  spiritual 
knowledge  —  the  result  of  sympathy,  that  is,  spiritual  responsive- 
ness. Intellectually  it  is  but  little  more  important  to  know  one 
rather  than  another  personality.  The  highest  worth  of  all  great 
works  of  genius  is  due  to  the  fact  that  they  are  apocalyptic  of 
great  personalities. 

Art  says,  as  the  Divine  Person  said,  whose  personality  and  the 
personalities  fashioned  after  it,  have  transformed  and  moulded  the 
ages,  "  Follow  me  !  "  Deep  was  the  meaning  wrapt  up  in  this 
command :  it  was,  Do  as  I  do,  live  as  I  live,  not  from  an  intel- 
lectual perception  of  the  principles  involved  in  my  life,  but 
through  a  full  sympathy,  through  the  awakening,  vitalizing,  actu- 
ating power  of  the  incarnate  Word. 

Art  also  says,  as  did  the  voice  from  the  wilderness,  inadequately 
translated,  "  Repent  ye,  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at  hand." 
(Meravocire  r/yyi/ce  yap  17  BacriAeta  TWV  ou/oavwv.)  Rather,  be  trans- 
formed, or,  as  De  Quincey  puts  it,  "  Wheel  into  a  new  centre  your 
spiritual  system ;  geocentric  has  that  system  been  up  to  this  hour 
—  that  is,  having  earth  and  the  earthly  for  its  starting-point; 
henceforward  make  it  heliocentric  (that  is,  with  the  sun,  or  the 
heavenly,  for  its  principle  of  motion)." 

The  poetry  of  Browning  everywhere  says  this,  and  says  it  more 
emphatically  than  that  of  any  other  poet  in  our  literature.  It  says 
everywhere,  that  not  through  knowledge,  not  through  a  sharpened 
intellect,  but  through  repentance,  in  the  deeper  sense  to  which 
I  have  just  alluded,  through  conversion,  through  wheeling  into 
a  new  centre  its  spiritual  system,  the  soul  attains  to  saving  truth. 
Salvation  with  him  means  that  revelation  of  the  soul  to  itself,  that 
awakening,  quickening,  actuating,  attitude-adjusting,  of  the  soul, 
which  sets  it  gravitating  toward  the  Divine. 

Browning's  idea  of  Conversion  is,  perhaps,  most  distinctly  ex- 
pressed in  a  passage  in  the  Monologue  of  the  Canon  Caponsacchi, 
in  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  wherein  he  sets  forth  the  circum- 
stances under  which  his  soul  was  wheeled  into  a  new  centre,  after 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 


59 


a  life  of  dalliance  and  elegant  folly,  and  made  aware  of  "  the 
marvellous  dower  of  the  life  it  was  gifted  and  filled  with."  He 
has  been  telling  the  judges,  before  whom  he  has  been  summoned, 
the  story  of  the  letters  forged  by  Guido  to  entrap  him  and  Pom- 
pilia,  and  of  his  having  seen  "  right  through  the  thing  that  tried 
to  pass  for  truth  and  solid,  not  an  empty  lie."  The  conclusion 
and  the  resolve  he  comes  to,  are  expressed  in  the  soliloquy  which 
he  repeats  to  the  judges,  as  having  uttered  at  the  time :  "  So,  he 
not  only  forged  the  words  for  her  but  words  for  me,  made  letters 
he  called  mine  :  what  I  sent,  he  retained,  gave  these  in  place,  all 
by  the  mistress  messenger  !  As  I  recognized  her,  at  potency  of 
truth,  so  she,  by  the  crystalline  soul,  knew  me,  never  mistook  the 
signs.  Enough  of  this  —  let  the  wraith  go  to  nothingness  again, 
here  is  the  orb,  have  only  thought  for  her  !  "  What  follows  admits 
us  to  the  very  heart  of  Browning's  poetry  —  admits  us  to  the  great 
Idea  which  is  almost,  in  these  days,  strange  to  say,  peculiarly  his 
—  which  no  other  poet,  certainly,  of  this  intellectual,  analytic, 
scientific  age,  with  its  "  patent,  truth-extracting  processes,"  has 
brought  out  with  the  same  degree  of  distinctness  —  the  great  Idea 
which  may  be  variously  characterized  as  that  of  soul-kindling, 
soul-quickening,  adjustment  of  soul-attitude,  regeneration,  conver- 
sion, through  personality  —  a  kindling,  quickening,  adjustment, 
regeneration,  conversion,  in  which  thought  is  not  even  a  coefficient. 
As  expressed  in  Sordello,  "  Divest  mind  of  e'en  thought,  and  lo, 
God's  unexpressed  will  dawns  above  us!"  "Thought?"  the 
Canon  goes  on  to  say,  "  Thought  ?  nay,  Sirs,  what  shall  follow  was 
not  thought :  I  have  thought  sometimes,  and  thought  long  and 
hard.  I  have  stood  before,  gone  round  a  serious  thing,  tasked  my 
whole  mind  to  touch  and  clasp  it  close,  .  .  .  God  and  man,  and 
what  duty  I  owe  both,  —  I  dare  to  say  I  have  confronted  these  in 
thought :  but  no  such  faculty  helped  here.  I  put  forth  no  thought, 
—  powerless,  all  that  night  I  paced  the  city :  it  was  the  first 
Spring.  By  the  invasion  I  lay  passive  to,  in  rushed  new  things, 
the  old  were  rapt  away ;  alike  abolished  —  the  imprisonment  of 
the  outside  air,  the  inside  weight  o'  the  world  that  pulled  me 


62  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

Browning  is  the  most  essentially  Christian  of  living  poets. 
Though  he  rarely  speaks  in  propria  persona,  in  his  poetry,  any  one 
who  has  gone  over  it  all,  can  have  no  doubt  as  to  his  own  most 
vital  beliefs.  What  the  Beauty-loving  Soul  in  Tennyson's  '  Palace 
of  Art '  says  of  herself,  cannot  be  suspected  even,  of  Browning  :  — 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 

I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all." 

Religion  with  him  is,  indeed,  the  all-in-all ;  but  not  any  particular 
form  of  it  as  a  finality.  This  is  not  a  world  for  finalities  of  any 
kind,  as  he  constantly  teaches  us :  it  is  a  world  of  broken  arcs, 
not  of  perfect  rounds.  Formulations  of  some  kind  he  would,  no 
doubt,  admit  there  must  be,  as  in  everything  else ;  but  with  him 
all  formulations  and  tabulations  of  beliefs,  especially  such  as  "  make 
square  to  a  finite  eye  the  circle  of  infinity," 1  are,  at  the  best,  only 
provisional,  and,  at  the  worst,  lead  to  spiritual  standstill,  spiritual 
torpor,  "  a  ghastly  smooth  life,  dead  at  heart." z  The  essential 
nature  of  Christianity  is  contrary  to  special  prescription,  do  this 
or  do  that,  believe  this  or  believe  that.  Christ  gave  no  recipes. 
Christianity  is  with  Browning,  and  this  he  sets  forth  again  and 
again,  a  life,  quickened  and  motived  and  nourished  by  the  Per- 
sonality of  Christ.  And  all  that  he  says  of  this  Personality  can  be 
accepted  by  every  Christian,  whatever  theological  view  he  may 
entertain  of  Christ.  Christ's  teachings  he  regards  but  as  incidents 
of  that  Personality,  and  the  records  we  have  of  his  sayings  and 
doings,  but  a  fragment,  a  somewhat  distorted  one,  it  may  be,  out 
of  which  we  must,  by  a  mystic  and  plastic  sympathy,  aided  by 
the  Christ  spirit  which  is  immanent  in  the  Christian  world,  mould 
the  Personality,  and  do  fealty  to  it.  The  Christian  must  endeavor 
to  be  able  to  say,  with  the  dying  John,  in  Browning's  '  Death  in 
the  Desert,'  "To  me  that  story,  —  ay,  that  Life  and  Death  of  which 
I  wrote  '  it  was  '  —  to  me,  it  is." 

1  '  Christmas  Eve.'  2  '  Easte*  Day.' 


IN  BROWNINGS  POETRY.  63 

The  poem  entitled  '  Christmas  Eve  '  contains  the  fullest  and 
most  explicit  expression,  in  Browning,  of  his  idea  of  the  personal- 
ity of  Christ,  as  being  the  all-in-all  of  Christianity. 

"  The  truth  in  God's  breast 
Lies  trace  for  trace  upon  ours  impressed : 
Though  He  is  so  bright  and  we  so  dim, 
We  are  made  in  His  image  to  witness  Him : 
And  were  no  eye  in  us  to  tell, 
Instructed  by  no  inner  sense, 
The  light  of  Heaven  from  the  dark  of  Hell, 
That  light  would  want  its  evidence,  — 
Though  Justice,  Good,  and  Truth,  were  still 
Divine,  if,  by  some  demon's  will, 
Hatred  and  wrong  had  been  proclaimed 
Law  through  the  worlds,  and  Right  misnamed, 
No  mere  exposition  of  morality 
Made  or  in  part  or  in  totality, 
Should  win  you  to  give  it  worship,  therefore  : 
And  if  no  better  proof  you  will  care  for, 
—  Whom  do  you  count  the  worst  man  upon  earth  ? 
Be  sure,  he  knows,  in  his  conscience,  more 
Of  what  Right  is,  than  arrives  at  birth 
In  the  best  man's  acts  that  we  bow  before : 
And  thence  I  conclude  that  the  real  God-function 
Is  to  furnish  a  motive  and  injunction 
For  practising  what  we  know  already. 
And  such  an  injunction  and  such  a  motive 
As  the  God  in  Christ,  do  you  waive,  and  '  heady, 
High-minded,'  hang  your  tablet  votive 
Outside  the  fane  on  a  finger-post? 
Morality  to  the  uttermost, 
Supreme  in  Christ  as  we  all  confess, 
Why  need  -we  prove  would  avail  no  jot 
To  make  Him  God,  if  God  he  were  not? 
Where  is  the  point  where  Himself  lays  stress? 
Does  the  precept  run  '  Believe  in  Good, 
In  Justice,  Truth,  now  understood 


62  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

Browning  is  the  most  essentially  Christian  of  living  poets. 
Though  he  rarely  speaks  in  propria  persona,  in  his  poetry,  any  one 
who  has  gone  over  it  all,  can  have  no  doubt  as  to  his  own  most 
vital  beliefs.  What  the  Beauty-loving  Soul  in  Tennyson's  '  Palace 
of  Art '  says  of  herself,  cannot  be  suspected  even,  of  Browning  :  — 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 

I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all." 

Religion  with  him  is,  indeed,  the  all-in-all ;  but  not  any  particular 
form  of  it  as  a  finality.  This  is  not  a  world  for  finalities  of  any 
kind,  as  he  constantly  teaches  us :  it  is  a  world  of  broken  arcs, 
not  of  perfect  rounds.  Formulations  of  some  kind  he  would,  no 
doubt,  admit  there  must  be,  as  in  everything  else ;  but  with  him 
all  formulations  and  tabulations  of  beliefs,  especially  such  as  "  make 
square  to  a  finite  eye  the  circle  of  infinity," *  are,  at  the  best,  only 
provisional,  and,  at  the  worst,  lead  to  spiritual  standstill,  spiritual 
torpor,  "  a  ghastly  smooth  life,  dead  at  heart." 2  The  essential 
nature  of  Christianity  is  contrary  to  special  prescription,  do  this 
or  do  that,  believe  this  or  believe  that.  Christ  gave  no  recipes. 
Christianity  is  with  Browning,  and  this  he  sets  forth  again  and 
again,  a  life,  quickened  and  motived  and  nourished  by  the  Per- 
sonality of  Christ.  And  all  that  he  says  of  this  Personality  can  be 
accepted  by  every  Christian,  whatever  theological  view  he  may 
entertain  of  Christ.  Christ's  teachings  he  regards  but  as  incidents 
of  that  Personality,  and  the  records  we  have  of  his  sayings  and 
doings,  but  a  fragment,  a  somewhat  distorted  one,  it  may  be,  out 
of  which  we  must,  by  a  mystic  and  plastic  sympathy,  aided  by 
the  Christ  spirit  which  is  immanent  in  the  Christian  world,  mould 
the  Personality,  and  do  fealty  to  it.  The  Christian  must  endeavor 
to  be  able  to  say,  with  the  dying  John,  in  Browning's  '  Death  in 
the  Desert,'  "To  me  that  story,  —  ay,  that  Life  and  Death  of  which 
I  wrote  '  it  was  '  —  to  me,  it  is." 

1  '  Christmas  Eve.'  2  '  Easter  Day.' 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY.  63 

The  poem  entitled  '  Christmas  Eve  '  contains  the  fullest  and 
most  explicit  expression,  in  Browning,  of  his  idea  of  the  personal- 
ity of  Christ,  as  being  the  all-in-all  of  Christianity. 

"  The  truth  in  God's  breast 
Lies  trace  for  trace  upon  ours  impressed : 
Though  He  is  so  bright  and  we  so  dim, 
We  are  made  in  His  image  to  witness  Him : 
And  were  no  eye  in  us  to  tell, 
Instructed  by  no  inner  sense, 
The  light  of  Heaven  from  the  dark  of  Hell, 
That  light  would  want  its  evidence,  — 
Though  Justice,  Good,  and  Truth,  were  still 
Divine,  if,  by  some  demon's  will, 
Hatred  and  wrong  had  been  proclaimed 
Law  through  the  worlds,  and  Right  misnamed, 
No  mere  exposition  of  morality 
Made  or  in  part  or  in  totality, 
Should  win  you  to  give  it  worship,  therefore  : 
And  if  no  better  proof  you  will  care  for, 
—  Whom  do  you  count  the  worst  man  upon  earth? 
Be  sure,  he  knows,  in  his  conscience,  more 
Of  what  Right  is,  than  arrives  at  birth 
In  the  best  man's  acts  that  we  bow  before : 
And  thence  I  conclude  that  the  real  God-function 
Is  to  furnish  a  motive  and  injunction 
For  practising  what  we  know  already. 
And  such  an  injunction  and  such  a  motive 
As  the  God  in  Christ,  do  you  waive,  and  '  heady, 
High-minded.'  hang  your  tablet  votive 
Outside  the  fane  on  a  finger-post? 
Morality  to  the  uttermost, 
Supreme  in  Christ  as  we  all  confess, 
Why  need  -we  prove  would  avail  no  jot 
To  make  Him  God,  if  God  he  were  not? 
Where  is  the  point  where  Himself  lays  stress? 
Does  the  precept  run  '  Believe  in  Good, 
In  Justice,  Truth,  now  understood 


64  THE  IDEA    OF  PERSONALITY 

For  the  first  time '  ?  —  or  '  Believe  in  ME, 
Who  lived  and  died,  yet  essentially 
Am  Lord  of  Life '  ? l    Whoever  can  take 
The  same  to  his  heart  and  for  mere  love's  sake 
Conceive  of  the  love,  —  that  man  obtains 
A  new  truth ;  no  conviction  gains 
Of  an  old  one  only,  made  intense 
By  a  fresh  appeal  to  his  faded  sense." 

If  all  Christendom  could  take  this  remarkable  poem  of '  Christ- 
mas Eve '  to  its  heart,  its  tolerance,  its  Catholic  spirit,  and,  more 
than  all,  the  fealty  it  exhibits  to  the  Personality  who  essentially  is 
Lord  of  Life,  what  a  revolution  it  would  undergo  !  and  what  a 
mass  of  dogmatic  and  polemic  theology  would  become  utterly 
obsolete  !  The  most  remarkable  thing,  perhaps,  about  the  vast 
body  of  Christian  theology  which  has  been  developed  during  the 
eighteen  centuries  which  have  elapsed  since  Christ  was  in  the 
flesh,  is,  that  it  is  occupied  so  largely,  it  might  almost  be  said, 
exclusively,  with  what  Christ  and  his  disciples  taught,  and  with 
fierce  discussions  about  the  manifold  meanings  which  have  been 
ingeniously  extorted  from  the  imperfect  record  of  what  he  taught. 
British  museum  libraries  of  polemics  have  been  written  in  defence 
of  what  Christ  himself  would  have  been  indifferent  to,  and  written 
with  an  animosity  towards  opponents  which  has  been  crystallized  in 
a  phrase  now  applied  in  a  general  way  to  any  intense  hate  — 
Odium  Theologicum. 

If  the  significance  of  Christ's  mission,  or  a  large  part  of  it,  is 
to  be  estimated  by  his  teachings,  from  those  teachings  important 
deductions  must  be  made,  as  many  of  them  had  been  delivered 
long  before  his  time. 

1  "  Subsists  no  law  of  life  outside  of  life." 


"  The  Christ  himself  had  been  no  Lawgiver, 
Unless  he  had  given  the  life,  too,  with  the  law." 

MRS.  BROWNING'S  Aurora  Leigh. 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY.  65 

Browning  has  something  to  say  on  this  point,  in  this  same  poem 
of  '  Christmas  Eve  ' :  — 

"  Truth's  atmosphere  may  grow  mephitic 
When  Papist  struggles  with  Dissenter, 
Impregnating  its  pristine  clarity, 

—  One,  by  his  daily  fare's  vulgarity, 
Its  gust  of  broken  meat  and  garlic  ; 

—  One,  by  his  soul's  too-much  presuming 
To  turn  the  frankincense's  fuming 

And  vapors  of  the  candle  starlike 
Into  the  cloud  her  wings  she  buoys  on. 
Each  that  thus  sets  the  pure  air  seething, 
May  poison  it  for  healthy  breathing  — 
But  the  Critic  leaves  no  air  to  poison ; 
Pumps  out  by  a  ruthless  ingenuity 
Atom  by  atom,  and  leaves  you — vacuity. 
Thus  much  of  Christ,  does  he  reject? 
And  what  retain?     His  intellect? 
What  is  it  I  must  reverence  duly? 
Poor  intellect  for  worship,  truly, 
Which  tells  me  simply  what  was  told 
(If  mere  morality,  bereft 
Of  the  God  in  Christ,  be  all  that's  left) 
Elsewhere  by  voices  manifold  ; 
With  this  advantage,  that  the  stater 
Made  nowise  the  important  stumble 
Of  adding,  he,  the  sage  and  humble, 
Was  also  one  with  the  Creator." 

Browning's  poetry  is  instinct  with  the  essence  of  Christianity  — 
the  life  of  Christ.  There  is  no  other  poetry,  there  is  no  writing 
of  any  form,  in  this  age,  which  so  emphasizes  the  fact  (and  it's 
the  most  consoling  of  all  facts  connected  with  the  Christian  re- 
ligion), that  the  Personality,  Jesus  Christ,  is  the  impregnable 
fortress  of  Christianity.  Whatever  assaults  and  inroads  may  be 
made  upon  the  original  records  by  Gottingen  professors,  upon  the 
august  fabric  of  the  Church,  with  its  creeds  and  dogmas,  and  for- 


66  THE  IDEA    OF  PERSONALITY 

mularies,  and  paraphernalia,  this  fortress  will  stand  forever,  and 
mankind  will  forever  seek  and  find  refuge  in  it. 

The  poem  entitled  'Cleon'  bears  the  intimation  (there's  nothing 
directly  expressed  thereupon),  that  Christianity  is  something  dis- 
tinct from,  and  beyond,  whatever  the  highest  civilization  of  the 
world,  the  civilization  of  Greece,  attained  to  before  Christ. 
Through  him  the  world  obtained  "  a  new  truth  —  no  conviction 
gained  of  an  old  one  merely,  made  intense  by  a  fresh  appeal  to 
the  faded  sense." 

Cleon,  the  poet,  writes  to  Protos  in  his  Tyranny  (that  is,  in  the 
Greek  sense,  Sovereignty).  Cleon  must  be  understood  as  repre- 
senting the  ripe,  composite  result,  as  an  individual,  of  what  con- 
stituted the  glory  of  Greece  —  her  poetry,  sculpture,  architecture, 
painting,  and  music,  and  also  her  philosophy.  He  acknowledges 
the  gifts  which  the  King  has  lavished  upon  him.  By  these  gifts  we 
are  to  understand  the  munificent  national  patronage  accorded  to 
the  arts.  "  The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades  gift  after  gift ; 
they  block  my  court  at  last  and  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee." 

By  the  slave  women  that  are  among  the  gifts  sent  to  Cleon, 
seems  to  be  indicated  the  degradation  of  the  spiritual  by  its  sub- 
jection to  earthly  ideals,  as  were  the  ideals  of  Greek  art.  This  is 
more  particularly  indicated  by  the  one  white  she-slave,  the  lyric 
woman,  whom  further  on  in  his  letter,  Cleon  promises  to  the  King 
he  will  make  narrate  (in  lyric  song  we  must  suppose)  his  fortunes, 
speak  his  great  words,  and  describe  his  royal  face. 

He  continues,  that  in  such  an  act  of  love,  —  the  bestowal  of 
princely  gifts  upon  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy,  —  men  shall 
remark  the  King's  recognition  of  the  use  of  life  —  that  his  spirit 
is  equal  to  more  than  merely  to  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad 
enough  for  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest.  He  ascribes  to 
the  King,  in  the  building  of  his  tower  (and  by  this  must  be  under- 
stood the  building  up  of  his  own  selfhood),  a  higher  motive  than 
work  for  mere  work's  sake,  —  that  higher  motive  being,  the  luring 
hope  of  some  eventual  rest  atop  of  it  (the  tower),  whence,  all  the 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY.  67 

tumult  of  the  building  hushed,  the  first  of  men  may  look  out  to 
the  east.1 

By  the  eventual  rest  atop  of  the  tower,  is  indicated  the  aim  of 
the  Greek  civilization,  to  reach  a  calm  within  the  finite,  while  the 
soul  is  constituted  and  destined  to  gravitate  forever  towards  the 
infinite  —  to  "force  our  straitened  sphere  .  .  .  display  completely 
here  the  mastery  another  life  should  learn."  ('  Sordello.')  The 
eventual  rest  in  this  world  is  not  the  Christian  ideal.  Earth-life, 
whatever  its  reach,  and  whatever  its  grasp,  is  to  the  Christian  a 
broken  arc,  not  a  perfect  round. 

Cleon  goes  on  to  recount  his  accomplishments  in  the  arts,  and 
what  he  has  done  in  philosophy,  in  reply  to  the  first  requirement 
of  Protos's  letter,  Protos,  as  it  appears,  having  heard  of,  and  won- 
deringly  enumerated,  the  great  things  Cleon  has  effected ;  and  he 
has  written  to  know  the  truth  of  the  report.  Cleon  replies,  that 
the  epos  on  the  King's  hundred  plates  of  gold  is  his,  and  his  the 
little  chaunt  so  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing-bark  when,  lights  at 
prow,  the  seamen  haul  their  nets ;  that  the  image  of  the  sun-god 
on  the  light-house  men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  his ;  that 
the  Pcecile,  o'erstoried  its  whole  length  with  painting,  is  his,  too ; 
that  he  knows  the  true  proportions  of  a  man  and  woman,  not  ob- 
served before ;  that  he  has  written  three  books  on  the  soul,  prov- 
ing absurd  all  written  hitherto,  and  putting  us  to  ignorance  again ; 
that  in  music  he  has  combined  the  moods,  inventing  one ;  that, 
in  brief,  all  arts  are  his,  and  so  known  and  recognized.  At  this 
he  writes  the  King  to  marvel  not.  We  of  these  latter  days,  he 
says,  being  more  composite,  appear  not  so  great  as  our  forerunners 

1  Tennyson  uses  a  similar  figure  in  '  The  Two  Voices.'  The  speaker,  who  is 
meditating  whether  "  to  be  or  not  to  be,"  says :  — 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Though  watching  from  a  ruined  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power." 

The  ruined  tower  is  his  own  dilapidated  selfhood,  whence  he  takes  his  out- 
look upon  the  world. 


68  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

who,  in  their  simple  way,  were  greater  in  a  certain  single  direction, 
than  we  ;  but  our  composite  way  is  greater.  This  life  of  men  on 
earth,  this  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here,  he  finds 
reason  to  believe,  was  intended  to  be  viewed  eventually  as  a  great 
whole,  the  individual  soul  being  only  a  factor  toward  the  realiza- 
tion of  this  great  whole  —  toward  spelling  out,  so  to  speak,  Zeus's 
idea  in  the  race.  Those  divine  men  of  old,  he  goes  on  to  say, 
reached  each  at  one  point,  the  outside  verge  that  rounds  our 
faculty,  and  where  they  reached,  who  could  do  more  than  reach? 
I  have  not  chaunted,  he  says,  verse  like  Homer's,  nor  swept  string 
like  Terpander,  nor  carved  and  painted  men  like  Phidias  and  his 
friend ;  I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point ;  but  I  have 
entered  into  sympathy  with  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul, 
who,  separate,  ignored  each  other's  arts.  The  wild  flower  was  the 
larger  —  I  have  dashed  rose-blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its 
cup's  honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit,  and  show  a 
better  flower,  if  not  so  large. 

And  now  he  comes  to  the  important  questions  in  the  King's  let- 
ter —  whether  he,  the  poet,  his  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts,  has  not 
attained  the  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life  —  whether,  now 
life  closeth  up,  he  faces  death  with  success  in  his  right  hand,  — 
whether  he  fears  death  less  than  he,  the  King,  does  himself,  the 
fortunate  of  men,  who  assigns  the  reason  for  thinking  that  he  does, 
that  he,  the  poet,  leaves  much  behind,  his  life  stays  in  the  poems 
men  shall  sing,  the  pictures  men  shall  study  ;  while  the  King's  life, 
complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy,  dies  altogether  with 
his  brain  and  arm,  as  he  leaves  not  behind,  as  the  poet  does,  works 
of  art  embodying  the  essence  of  his  life  which,  through  those 
works,  will  pass  into  the  lives  of  men  of  all  succeeding  times. 
Cleon  replies  that  if  in  the  morning  of  philosophy,  the  King,  with 
the  light  now  in  him,  could  have  looked  on  all  earth's  tenantry,  from 
worm  to  bird,  ere  man  appeared,  and  if  Zeus  had  questioned  him 
whether  he  would  improve  on  it,  do  more  for  visible  creatures  than 
was  done,  he  would  have  answered,  "  Ay,  by  making  each  grow 
conscious  in  himself:  all's  perfect  else,  life's  mechanics  can  no 


IN  BROWNING'S  POETRY.  69 

further  go,  and  all  this  joy  in -natural  life  is  put,  like  fire  from  off 
thy  fingers  into  each,  so  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same.  But  'tis 
pure  fire  —  and  they  mere  matter  are ;  it  has  them,  not  they  /'/  / 
and  so  I  choose,  for  man,  that  a  third  thing  shall  stand  apart  from 
both,  a  quality  arise  within  the  soul,  which,  intro-active,  made  to 
supervise  and  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself  and  so  be 
happy."  But  it  is  this  quality,  Cleon  continues,  which  makes  man 
a  failure.  This  sense  of  sense,  this  spirit  consciousness,  grew  the 
only  life  worth  calling  life,  the  pleasure-house,  watch-tower,  and 
treasure-fortress  of  the  soul,  which  whole  surrounding  flats  of 
natural  life  seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to ;  a  tower  that 
crowns  a  country.  But  alas  !  the  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish 
there,  for  thence  we  have  discovered  that  there's  a  world  of  capa- 
bility for  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us,  inviting  us ; 
and  still  the  soul  craves  all,  and  still  the  flesh  replies,  "  Take  no 
jot  more  than  ere  you  climbed  the  tower  to  look  abroad  !  Nay, 
so  much  less,  as  that  fatigue  has  brought  deduction  to  it."  After 
expatiating  on  this  sad  state  of  man,  he  arrives  at  the  same  con- 
clusion as  the  King  in  his  letter :  "  I  agree  in  sum,  O  King,  with 
thy  profound  discouragement,  who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the 
more.  Most  progress  is  most  failure  !  thou  sayest  well." 

And  now  he  takes  up  the  last  point  of  the  King's  letter,  that  he, 
the  King,  holds  joy  not  impossible  to  one  with  artist-gifts,  who 
leaves  behind  living  works.  Looking  over  the  sea,  as  he  writes, 
he  says,  "Yon  rower  with  the  moulded  muscles  there,  lowering 
the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I."  He  presents  with  clearness,  and  with 
rigid  logic,  the  dilemma  of  the  growing  soul ;  shows  the  vanity  of 
living  in  works  left  behind,  and  in  the  memory  of  posterity,  while 
he,  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man,  shall  sleep  in  his  urn.  The 
horror  of  the  thought  makes  him  dare  imagine  at  times  some 
future  state  unlimited  in  capability  for  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for. 
joy.  But  no  !  Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  such  a  state  ;  and  alas  ! 
he  must  have  done  so  were  it  possible  ! 

He  concludes,  "  Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die, 
glad  for  what  was  !  Farewell."  And  then,  as  a  matter  of  minor 


70  THE  IDEA   OF  PERSONALITY 

importance,  he  informs  the  King,  in  a  postscript,  that  he  cannot 
tell  his  messenger  aright  where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  to  one 
called  Paulus.  Protos,  it  must  be  understood,  having  heard  of  the 
fame  of  Paul,  and  being  perplexed  in  the  extreme,  has  written  the 
great  apostle  to  know  of  his  doctrine.  But  Cleon  writes  that  it  is 
vain  to  suppose  that  a  mere  barbarian  Jew,  one  circumcised,  hath 
access  to  a  secret  which  is  shut  from  them,  and  that  the  King 
wrongs  their  philosophy  in  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one. 
"  Oh,  he  finds  adherents,  who  does  not.  Certain  slaves  who  touched 
on  this  same  isle,  preached  him  and  Christ,  and,  as  he  gathered 
from  a  bystander,  their  doctrines  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man." 

There  is  a  quiet  beauty  about  this  poem  which  must  insinuate 
itself  into  the  feelings  of  every  reader.  In  tone  it  resembles  the 
'  Epistle  of  Karshish,  the  Arab  Physician.'  The  verse  of  both 
poems  is  very  beautiful.  No  one  can  read  these  two  poems,  and 
'  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology,'  and  '  The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb 
at  St.  Praxed's  Church,'  and  not  admit  that  Browning  is  a  master 
of  blank  verse  in  its  most  difficult  form  —  a  form  far  more  difficult 
than  that  of  the  epic  blank  verse  of  Milton,  or  the  Idyllic  blank 
verse  of  Tennyson,  argumentative  and  freighted  with  thought,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  almost  chatty,  as  it  is,  and  bearing  in  its  course 
exquisitely  poetical  conceptions.  The  same  may  be  said  of  much 
of  the  verse  of '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  especially  that  of  the 
monologues  of  the  Canon  Caponsacchi,  Pompilia,  the  Pope,  and 
Count  Guido  Franceschini.  But  this  by  the  way. 

'  Cleon  '  belongs  to  a  grand  group  of  poems,  in  which  Browning 
shows  himself  to  be,  as  I've  said,  the  most  essentially  Christian  of 
living  poets  —  the  poet  who,  more  emphatically  than  any  of  his 
contemporaries  have  done,  has  enforced  the  importance,  the  indis- 
pensableness  of  a  new  birth,  the  being  born  from  above  (euWkv) 
as  the  condition  not  only  of  soul  vitality  and  progress,  but  also  of 
intellectual  rectitude.  In  this  group  of  poems  are  embodied  the 
profoundest  principles  of  education  —  principles  which  it  behoves 
the  present  generation  of  educators  to  look  well  to.  The  acquisi- 
tion of  knowledge  is  a  good  thing,  the  sharpening  of  the  intellect 


LV  BROll\V/.\\rs  POETRY.  7! 

is  a  good  thing,  the  cultivation  of  philosophy  is  a  good  thing ;  but 
there  is  something  of  infinitely  more  importance  than  all  these  — 
it  is,  the  rectification,  the  adjustment,  through  that  mysterious  oper- 
ation we  call  sympathy,  of  the  unconscious  personality,  the  hidden 
soul,  which  co-operates  with  the  active  powers,  with  the  conscious 
intellect,  and,  as  this  unconscious  personality  is  rectified  or  unrec- 
tilied,  determines  the  active  powers,  the  conscious  intellect,  for 
righteousness  or  unrighteousness. 

The  attentive  reader  of  Browning's  poetry  must  soon  discover 
how  remarkably  homogeneous  it  is  in  spirit.  There  are  many  au- 
thors, and  great  authors  too,  the  reading  of  whose  collected  works 
gives  the  impression  of  their  having  "  tried  their  hand  "  at  many 
things.  No  such  impression  is  derivable  from  the  voluminous 
poetry  of  Browning.  Wide  as  is  its  range,  one  great  and  homo- 
geneous spirit  pervades  and  animates  it  all,  from  the  earliest  to  the 
latest.  No  other  living  poet  gives  so  decided  an  assurance  of 
having  a  burden  to  deliver.  An  appropriate  general  title  to  his 
works  would  be,  'The  Burden  of  Robert  Browning  to  the  i9th 
Century.'  His  earliest  poems  show  distinctly  his  attitude  toward 
things.  We  see  in  what  direction  the  poet  has  set  his  face  —  what 
his  philosophy  of  life  is,  what  soul-life  means  with  him,  what  re- 
generation means,  what  edification  means  in  its  deepest  sense  of 
building  up  within  us  the  spiritual  temple.  And  if  he  had  left  this 
world  after  writing  no  more  than  those  poems  of  his  youth,  '  Pau- 
line' and  '  Paracelsus,'  a  very  fair  ex-pede-Herculetn  estimate  might 
have  been  made  of  the  possibilities  which  he  has  since  so  grandly 
realized. 


BROWNING'S  OBSCURITY. 


III. 

MR.  BROWNING'S  "OBSCURITY." 

IT  was  long  the  fashion  —  and  that  fashion  has  not  yet  passed 
away  —  with  skimming  readers  and  perfunctory  critics  to 
charge  Mr.  Browning  with  being  "wilfully  obscure,  unconscien- 
tiously  careless,  and  perversely  harsh." 

There  are  readers  and  readers.  One  class,  constituting,  per- 
haps, not  more  than  one-tenth  of  one  per  cent,  or  a  thousandth 
part  of  the  whole  number,  "  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  di- 
gest "  ;  the  remaining  ninety-nine  and  nine-tenths  per  cent,  through 
a  habit  of  loose  and  indiscriminate  reading,  are  unequal  to  the 
sustained  concentration  of  mind  demanded  by  the  higher  poetry, 
the  language  of  which  is  characterized  by  a  severe  economy  of 
expression  —  a  closeness  of  texture,  resulting  from  the  elliptical 
energy  of  highly  impassioned  thought. 

Reading  is,  perhaps,  more  superficial  at  the  present  day  than  it 
ever  was  before.  There  is  an  almost  irresistible  temptation  to 
reverse  the  "  multum  legendum  esse  non  multa "  of  Quintilian, 
overwhelmed  .as  we  are  with  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers, 
which  no  man  can  number,  and  of  which  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  minds  endeavor  to  gobble  up  all  they  can  ;  and  yet, 
from  want  of  all  digestive  and  assimilating  power,  they  are  pitiably 
famished  and  deadened. 

Sir  John  Lubbock  has  lately  been  interested  in  the  preparation 
of  a  list  of  the  best  hundred  books,  and  to  that  end  has  solicited 
the  aid  of  a  number  of  prominent  scholars.  Prof.  Edward  Dowden 
remarks  thereupon,  in  an  article  on  '  The  Interpretation  of  Litera- 
ture," "  It  would  have  been  more  profitable  for  us  had  we  been 
advised  how  to  read  any  one  of  the  hundred ;  for  what,  indeed, 
does  it  matter  whether  we  read  the  best  books  or  the  worst,  if  we 


BROWNING'S  OBSCURITY.  73 

lack  the  power  or  the  instinct  or  the  skill  by  which  to  reach  the  heart 
of  any  of  them?  Books  for  most  readers  are,  as  Montaigne  says, 
'  a  languid  pleasure ' ;  and  so  they  must  be,  unless  they  become 
living  powers,  with  a  summons  or  a  challenge  for  our  spirit,  unless 
we  embrace  them  or  wrestle  with  them." 

To  return  from  this  digression  to  the  charge  against  Browning 
of  obscurity.  And,  first,  it  should  be  said  that  Browning  has  so 
much  material,  such  a  large  thought  and  passion  capital,  that  we 
never  find  him  making  a  little  go  a  great  way,  by  means  of  expres- 
sion, or  rather  concealing  the  little  by  means  of  rhetorical  tinsel. 
We  can  never  justly  demand  of  him  what  the  Queen  in  '  Hamlet ' 
demands  of  Polonius,  "  more  matter  with  less  art."  His  thought 
is  wide-reaching  and  discursive,  and  the  motions  of  his  mind  rapid 
and  leaping.  The  connecting  links  of  his  thought  have  often  to  be 
supplied  by  an  analytic  reader  whose  mind  is  not  up  to  the  required 
tension  to  spring  over  the  chasm.  He  shows  great  faith  in  his 
reader  and  "  leaves  the  mere  rude  explicit  details,"  as  if  he  thought, 

"  'tis  but  brother's  speech 

We  need,  speech  where  an  accent's  change  gives  each 
The  other's  soul."  1 

A  truly  original  writer  like  Browning,  original,  I  mean,  in  his 
spiritual  attitudes,  is  always  more  or  less  difficult  to  the  uninitiated, 
for  the  reason  that  he  demands  of  his  reader  new  standpoints, 
new  habits  of  thought  and  feeling ;  says,  virtually,  to  his  reader, 
McTafoeiTe ;  and  until  these  new  standpoints  are  taken,  these  new 
habits  of  thought  and  feeling  induced,  the  difficulty,  while  appear- 
ing to  the  reader  at  the  outset,  to  be  altogether  objective,  will 
really  be,  to  a  great  extent,  subjective,  that  is,  will  be  in  himself. 

Goethe,  in  his  '  Wahrheit  und  Dichtung,'  says  :  — 

"  Wer  einem  Autor  Dunkelheit  vorwerfen  will,  sollte  erst  sein  eigenes 
Innere  besuchen,  ob  es  denn  da  auch  recht  hell  ist.  In  der  Dammer- 
ung  wird  eine  sehr  deutliche  Schrift  unlesbar."  2 

1  '  Sordello.' 

2  He  who  would  charge  an  author  with  obscurity,  should  first  look  into  his 
own  mind,  to  know  whether  it  is  quite  clear  there.     In  the  dusk  a  very  dis- 
tinct handwriting  becomes  illegible." 


74 


BROWNINGS  OBSCURITY. 


And  George  Henry  Lewes,  in  his  '  Life  of  Goethe,'  well  says  :  — 

"A  masterpiece  excites  no  sudden  enthusiasm;  it  must  be  studied 
much  and  long,  before  it  is  fully  comprehended ;  we  must  grow  up  to  it, 
for  it  will  not  descend  to  us.  Its  emphasis  grows  with  familiarity.  We 
never  become  disenchanted ;  we  grow  more  and  more  awe-struck  at  its 
infinite  wealth.  We  discover  no  trick,  for  there  is  none  to  discover. 
Homer,  Shakespeare,  Raphael,  Beethoven,  Mozart,  never  storm  the 
judgment ;  but  once  fairly  in  possession,  they  retain  it  with  unceasing 
influence." 

And  Professor  Dowden,  in  the  article  from  which  I  have  just 
quoted,  says :  — 

"  Approaching  a  great  writer  in  this  spirit  of  courageous  and  affec- 
tionate fraternity,  we  need  all  our  forces  and  all  our  craft  for  the 
friendly  encounter.  If  we  love  ease  and  lethargy,  let  us  turn  in  good 
time  and  fly.  The  interpretation  of  literature,  like  the  interpretation 
of  Nature,  is  no  mere  record  of  facts ;  it  is  no  catalogue  of  the  items 
which  make  up  a  book  —  such  catalogues  and  analyses  of  contents  en- 
cumber our  histories  of  literature  with  some  of  their  dreariest  pages. 
The  interpretation  of  literature  exhibits  no  series  of  dead  items,  but 
rather  the  life  and  power  of  one  mind  at  play  upon  another  mind  duly 
qualified  to  receive  and  manifest  these.  Hence,  one  who  would  inter- 
pret the  work  of  a  master  must  summon  up  all  his  powers,  and  must 
be  alive  at  as  many  points  as  possible.  He  who  approaches  his  author 
as  a  whole,  bearing  upon  life  as  a  whole,  is  himself  alive  at  the  greatest 
possible  number  of  points,  will  be  the  best  and  truest  interpreter.  For 
he  will  grasp  what  is  central,  and  at  the  same  time  will  be  sensitive  to 
the  value  of  all  details,  which  details  he  will  perceive  not  isolated,  but 
in  connection  with  one  another,  and  with  the  central  life  to  which  they 
belong  and  from  which  they  proceed." 

In  his  poem  entitled  '  Pacchiarotto,  and  how  he  worked  in  dis- 
temper,' Mr.  Browning  turns  upon  his  critics,  whom  he  character- 
izes as  "  the  privileged  fellows,  in  the  drabs,  blues,  and  yellows  " 
(alluding  to  the  covers  of  the  leading  British  Reviews),  and 
especially  upon  Alfred  Austin,  the  author  of  that  work  of  whole- 
sale condemnation,  '  The  Poetry  of  the  Period,'  and  gives  them  a 


BROWNING'S  OBSCURITY. 


75 


sound  and  well-deserved  drubbing.     At  the  close  of  the    onset 
he  says  :  — 

"Was  it  'grammar'  wherein  you  would  'coach'  me  — 
You,  —  pacing  in  even  that  paddock 
Of  language  allotted  you  ad  hoc, 
With  a  clog  at  your  fetlocks,  —  you  —  scorners 
Of  me  free  from  all  its  four  corners? 
Was  it  'clearness  of  words  which  convey  thought? ' 
Ay,  if  words  never  needed  enswathe  aught 
But  ignorance,  impudence,  envy 
And  malice  —  what  word-swathe  would  then  vie 
With  yours  for  a  clearness  crystalline  ? 
But  had  you  to  put  in  one  small  line 
Some  thought  big  and  bouncing  —  as  noddle 
Of  goose,  born  to  cackle  and  waddle 
And  bite  at  man's  heel  as  goose-wont  is, 
Never  felt  plague  its  puny  os  frontis  — 
You'd  know,  as  you  hissed,  spat  and  sputtered, 
Clear  '  quack-quack '  is  easily  uttered !  " 

In  a  letter  written  to  Mr.  W.  G.  Kingsland,  in  1868,  Mr.  Brown- 
ing says  :  — 

"  I  can  have  little  doubt  that  my  writing  has  been  in  the  main  too  hard 
for  many  I  should  have  been  pleased  to  communicate  with  ;  but  I  never 
designedly  tried  to  puzzle  people,  as  some  of  my  critics  have  supposed. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  never  pretended  to  offer  such  literature  as  should 
be  a  substitute  for  a  cigar  or  a  game  at  dominoes  to  an  idle  man.  So, 
perhaps,  on  the  whole  I  get  my  deserts,  and  something  over  —  not  a 
crowd,  but  a  few  I  value  more."  1 

It  was  never  truer  of  any  author  than  it  is  true  of  Browning, 
that  Le  style  c'est  Dwrn me ;  and  Browning's  style  is  an  expres- 
sion of  the  panther-restlessness  and  panther-spring  of  his  impas- 
sioned intellect.  The  musing  spirit  of  a  Wordsworth  or  a  Ten- 
nyson he  partakes  not  of. 

Mr.  Richard  Holt  Hutton's  characterization  of  the  poet's  style, 

1  '  Browning  Society  Papers,'  III.,  p.  344. 


;6  BROWNINGS  OBSCURITY. 

as  a  "  crowded  note-book  style,"  is  not  a  particularly  happy  one. 
In  the  passage  which  he  cites  from  Sordello,  to  illustrate  the 
"  crowded  note-book  style,"  occurs  the  following  parenthesis  :  — 

"  (To  be  by  him  themselves  made  act, 
Not  watch  Sordello  acting  each  of  them.)1' 

"  What  the  parenthesis  means,"  he  says,  "  I  have  not  the  most 
distant  notion.  Mr.  Browning  might  as  well  have  said,  '  to  be  by 
him  her  himself  herself  themselves  made  act,'  etc.,  for  any  vestige 
of  meaning  I  attach  to  this  curious  mob  of  pronouns  and  verbs. 
It  is  exactly  like  the  short  notes  of  a  speech  intended  to  be 
interpreted  afterwards  by  one  who  had  heard  and  understood  it 
himself." ' 

At  first  glance,  this  parenthesis  is  obscure  ;  but  the  obscurity  is 
not  due  to  its  being  "exactly  like  the  short  notes  of  a  speech," 
etc.  It  is  due  to  what  the  "  obscurity  "  of  Mr.  Browning's  lan- 
guage, as  language,  is,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  due,  namely,  to 
the  collocation  of  the  words,  not  to  an  excessive  economy  of 
words.  He  often  exercises  a  liberty  in  the  collocation  of  his 
words  which  is  beyond  what  an  uninflected  language  like  the  Eng- 
lish admits  of,  without  more  or  less  obscurity.  There  are  diffi- 
cult passages  in  Browning  which,  if  translated  into  Latin,  would 
present  no  difficulty  at  all ;  for  in  Latin,  the  relations  of  words  are 
more  independent  of  their  collocation,  being  indicated  by  their 
inflections. 

The  meaning  of  the  parenthesis  is,  and,  independently  of  the 
context,  a  second  glance  takes  it  in  (the  wonder  is,  Mr.  Hutton 
didn't  take  it  in), — 

"  To  be  themselves  made  by  him  [to]  act, 
Not  each  of  them  watch  Sordello  acting." 

There  are  two  or  three  characteristics  of  the  poet's  diction 
which  may  be  noticed  here  :  — 

i.  The  suppression  of  the  relative,  both  nominative  and  accu- 
sative or  dative,  is  not  uncommon  ;  and,  until  the  reader  becomes 

1  'Essays  Theological  and  Literary,'     Vol.  II.,  zd  ed.,  rev.  and  enl., p.  175. 


BROll  'NING  *S   OBSCURITY. 


77 


familiar  with  it,  it  often  gives,  especially  if  the  suppression  is  that 
of  a  subject  relative,  a  momentary,  but  only  a  momentary,  check 
to  the  understanding  of  a  passage. 

The  following  examples  are  from  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book ' :  — 

"  Checking  the  song  of  praise  in  me,  had  else 
Swelled  to  the  full  for  God's  will  done  on  earth." 

I.    The  Ring  and  the  Book,  v.  591. 

i.e.,  which  had  (would  have)  else  swelled  to  the  full,  etc. 

"  This  that  I  mixed  with  truth,  motions  of  mine 
That  quickened,  made  the  inertness  malleolable 
O'  the  gold  was  not  mine,1'  — 

I.    The  Ring  and  the  Book,  v.  703. 

"  Harbouring  in  the  centre  of  its  sense 
A  hidden  germ  of  failure,  shy  but  sure, 
Should  neutralize  that  honesty  and  leave 
That  feel  for  truth  at  fault,  as  the  way  is  too." 

I.   The  Ring  and  the  Book,  v.  851. 

"  Elaborate  display  of  pipe  and  wheel 
Framed  to  unchoak,  pump  up  and  pour  apace 
Truth  in  a  flowery  foam  shall  wash  the  world." 

I.   The  Ring  and  the  Book,  v.  1113. 

"  see  in  such 
A  star  shall  climb  apace  and  culminate," 

III.  The  Other  Half  Rome,  v.  846. 

"  Guido,  by  his  folly,  forced  from  them 
The  untoward  avowal  of  the  trick  o'  the  birth, 
Would  otherwise  be  safe  and  secret  now." 

IV.   Tertium  Quid,  v.  1599. 
"  SO  I 

Lay,  and  let  come  the  proper  throe  would  thrill 
Into  the  ecstasy  and  outthrob  pain." 

VI.   Giuseppe  Caponsacchi,  v.  97* 


78  BROWNINGS  OBSCURITY. 

"blind? 

Ay,  as  a  man  would  be  inside  the  sun, 
Delirious  with  the  plentitude  of  light 
Should  interfuse  him  to  the  finger-ends  "  — 

X.   The  Pope,  1564. 

"  You  have  the  sunrise  now,  joins  truth  to  truth." 

X.  The  Pope,  1763. 

"  One  makes  fools  look  foolisher  fifty-fold 
By  putting  in  their  place  the  wise  like  you, 
To  take  the  full  force  of  an  argument 
Would  buffet  their  stolidity  in  vain." 

XI.   Guido,  858. 

Here  the  infinitive  "To  take"  might  be  understood,  at  first 
look,  as  the  subject  of  "  Would  buffet "  ;  but  it  depends  on  "  put- 
ting," etc.,  and  the  subject  relative  "that"  is  suppressed:  "an 
argument  [that]  would  buffet  their  stolidity  in  vain." 

"  Will  you  hear  truth  can  do  no  harm  nor  good?  " 

XI.   Guido,  1915. 

"  I  who,  with  outlet  for  escape  to  heaven, 
Would  tarry  if  such  flight  allowed  my  foe 
To  raise  his  head,  relieved  of  that  firm  foot 
Had  pinned  him  to  the  fiery  pavement  else !  " 

XI.   Guido,  2099. 

i.e.,  "  that  firm  foot  [that]  had  (would  have)  pinned." 

..."  ponder,  ere  ye  pass, 
Each  incident  of  this  strange  human  play 
Privily  acted  on  a  theatre, 
Was  deemed  secure  from  every  gaze  but  God's,"  — 

XII.  The  Book  and  the  Ring,  v.  546 

"  As  ye  become  spectators  of  this  scene  — 


—  A  soul  made  weak  by  its  pathetic  want 
Of  just  the  first  apprenticeship  to  sin, 
Would  thenceforth  make  the  sinning  soul  secure 
From  all  foes  save  itself,  that's  truliest  foe,"  — 

XII.   The  Book  and  the  Ring,  v.  539. 

i.e.,  "  sin,  [that]  would." 


BROWNING'S  OBSCURITY, 


79 


"  Was  he  proud,  —  a  true  scion  of  the  stock 
Which  bore  the  blazon,  shall  make  bright  my  page"  — 

XII.   The  Book  and  the  Ring,  v.  821. 

2.  The  use  of  the  infinitive  without  the  prepositive  "  to,"  is  fre- 
quently extended  beyond  present  usage,  especially  in  '  Sordello  ' 
and  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book.'  The  following  are  examples  :  — 

"  Who  fails,  through  deeds  howe'er  diverse,  re-track 
My  purpose  still,  my  task?" 

Sordello,  p.  168. 

"  failed  Adelaide  see  then 
Who  was  the  natural  chief,  the  man  of  men?" 

Sordello,  p.  175. 

"  but  when 

'Twas  time  expostulate,  attempt  withdraw 
Taurello  from  his  child,"  .  .  . 

Sordello,  p.  180. 

Here  are  two  infinitives,  with  the  prepositive  omitted,  "  expos- 
tulate "  and  "  attempt,"  both  dependent  on  the  noun  "  time,"  and 
another,  "withdraw,"  without  the  prepositive,  dependent  on  "at- 
tempt "  :  "  but  when  'twas  time  [to]  expostulate,  [to]  attempt 
[to]  withdraw,"  etc. 

"  For  thus  he  ventured,  to  the  verge, 
Push  a  vain  mummery."  .  .  . 

Sordello,  p.  190. 

i.e.,  for  thus  he  ventured  [to]  push  to  the  verge  a  vain  mummery. 

"as  yet 

He  had  inconsciously  contrived  forget 
I'  the  whole,  to  dwell  o'  the  points".  .  . 

Sordello,  p.  190. 

"  Grown  bestial,  dreaming  how  become  divine." 

Sordello,  p.  191. 

"  And  the  whole  music  it  was  framed  afford"  — 

Sordello,  p.  203. 


8o  BROWNINGS   OBSCURITY. 

"  Was  such  a  lighting-up  of  faith,  in  life, 
Only  allowed  initiate,  set  man's  step 
In  the  true  way  by  help  of  the  great  glow?" 

R.  and  B.  X.   The  Pope,  v.  1815. 

i.e.,  only  allowed  [to]  initiate,  [to]  set  man's  step,  etc. 

"  If  I  might  read  instead  of  print  my  speech,  — 
Ay,  and  enliven  speech  with  many  a  flower 
Refuses  obstinately  blow  in  print." 

R.  and  B.  IX.  Johannes-Baptista  Bottinius,  v.  4. 

Here  the  subject  relative  of  "  refuses  "  is  omitted,  and  the  verb 
followed  by  an  infinitive  without  the  prepositive  :  "  many  a  flower 
[that]  refuses  obstinately  [to]  blow  in  print." 

3.  Instead  of  the  modern  analytic  form,  the  simple  form  of  the 
past  subjunctive  derived  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  inflectional  form, 
and  identical  with  that  of  the  past  indicative,  is  frequently  em- 
ployed, the  context  only  showing  that  it  is  the  subjunctive.  (See 
Abbott's  'Shakespearian  Grammar,'  361  et seq.) 

"  Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute,  — gain  most,  as  we  did  best !" 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  St.  xi. 

i.e.,  as  we  should  do  best. 

"  Thus  were  abolished  Spring  and  Autumn  both," 

I.  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  1358. 

i.e.,  would  be  abolished. 

"  His  peevishness  had  promptly  put  aside 
Such  honor  and  refused  the  proffered  boon,"  .  .  . 

II.   Half  Rome  (R.  and  B.),  369. 

i.e.,  would  have  promptly  put  aside. 

"  (What  daily  pittance  pleased  the  plunderer  dole.)" 

X.   The  Pope  (R.  and  B.),  561. 

i.e.,  as  the  context  shows,  [it]  might  please  the  plunderer  [to]  dole. 


BROWNING'S  OBSCURITY.  8 1 

"  succession  to  the  inheritance 
Which  bolder  crime  had  lost  you :  " 

IV.   Tertium  Quid  (R  and  B.),  1104. 

i.e.,  would  have  lost  you. 

But  the  verbs  "be"  and  "have"  are  chiefly  so  used,  and  not 
often  beyond  what  present  usage  allows.1 

4.  The  use  of  the  dative,  or  indirect  object,  without "  to  "  or  "  for." 
Such  datives  are  very  frequent,  and  scarcely  need  illustration. 
The  poet  has  simply  carried  the  use  of  them  beyond  the  present 
general  usage  of  the  language.  But  there's  a  noticeable  one  in  the 
Pope's  Monologue,  in  'The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  w.  1464-1466  : 
The  Archbishop  of  Arezzo,  to  whom  poor  Pompilia  has  applied, 
in  her  distress,  for  protection  against  her  brutal  husband,  thinks  it 
politic  not  to  take  her  part,  but  send  her  back  to  him  and  enjoin 
obedience  and  submission.  The  Pope,  in  his  Monologue,  repre- 
sents the  crafty  Archbishop  as  saying,  when  Pompilia  cries,  "  Pro- 
tect me  from  the  wolf !  " 

"  No,  thy  Guido  is  rough,  heady,  strong, 
Dangerous  to  disquiet :  let  him  bide ! 
He  needs  some  bone  to  mumble,  help  amuse 
The  darkness  of  his  den  with  :  so,  the  fawn 
Which  limps  up  bleeding  to  my  foot  and  lies, 
—  Come  to  me  daughter  !  —  thus  I  throw  him  back ! " 

i.e.,  thus  I  throw  back  [to]  him  the  fawn  which  limps  up  bleeding 
to  my  foot  and  lies.  The  parenthesis,  "  Come  to  me,  daughter," 
being  interposed,  and  which  is  introduced  as  preparatory  to  his 
purpose,  adds  to  the  difficulty  of  the  construction. 

There  are,  after  all,  but  comparatively  few  instances  in  Brown- 
ing's poetry,  where  these  features  of  his  diction  can  be  fairly 
condemned.  They  often  impart  a  crispness  to  the  expressions  in. 
which  they  occur. 

1  Tennyson  uses  "  saw  "  =  viderem,  in  the  following  passage :  — 

"  But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw." 

Sir  Percivale  in  '  The  Holy  Grail? 


82  BROWNING'S  OBSCURITY. 

The  contriving  spirit  of  the  poet's  language  often  results  in 
great  complexity  of  construction.  Complexity  of  construction 
may  be  a  fault,  and  it  may  not.  It  may  be  justified  by  the  com- 
plexity of  the  thought  which  it  bears  along.  "  Clear  quack-quack 
is  easily  uttered."  But  where  an  author's  thought  is  nimble,  far- 
reaching,  elliptical  through  its  energy,  and  discursive,  the  expres- 
sion of  it  must  be  more  or  less  complex  or  involved ;  he  will 
employ  subordinate  clauses,  and  parentheses,  through  which  to 
express  the  outstanding,  restricting,  and  toning  relations  of  his 
thought,  that  is,  if  he  is  a  master  of  perspective,  and  ranks 
his  grouped  thoughts  according  to  their  relative  importance. 

The  poet's  apostrophe  to  his  wife  in  the  spirit-world,  which 
closes  the  long  prologue  to  'The  Ring  and  the  Book  '  (w.  1391- 
1416),  and  in  which  he  invokes  her  aid  and  benediction,  in  the 
work  he  has  undertaken,  presents  a  greater  complexity  of  con- 
struction than  is  to  be  met  with  anywhere  else  in  his  works  : 
and  of  this  passage  it  may  be  said,  as  it  may  be  said  of  any  other 
having  a  complex  construction,  supposing  this  to  be  the  only 
difficulty,  that  it's  hard  rather  than  obscure,  and  demands  close 
reading.  But,  notwithstanding  its  complex  structure  and  the 
freight  of  thought  conveyed,  the  passage  has  a  remarkable  light- 
someness  of  movement,  and  is  a  fine  specimen  of  blank  verse. 
The  unobtrusive,  but  distinctly  felt,  alliteration  which  runs  through 
it,  contributes  something  toward  this  lightsomeness.  The  first  two 
verses  have  a  Tennysonian  ring :  — 

"  O  lyric  Love,  half-angel  and  half-bird 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire,  — 
Boldest  of  hearts  that  ever  braved  the  sun, 
Took  sanctuary  within  the  holier  blue, 

And  sang  a  kindred  soul  out  to  his  face,  —  5 

Yet  human  at  the  red-ripe  of  the  heart  — 
When  the  first  summons  from  the  darkling  earth 
Reached  thee  amid  thy  chambers,  blanched  their  blue, 
And  bared  them  of  the  glory  —  to  drop  down, 
To  toil  for  man,  to  suffer  or  to  die,  —  10 


BROWNING\S  OBSCURITY.  83 

This  is  the  same  voice :  can  thy  soul  know  change? 

Hail  then,  and  hearken  from  the  realms  of  help ! 

Never  may  I  commence  my  song,  my  due 

To  God  who  best  taught  song  by  gift  of  thee, 

Except  with  bent  head  and  beseeching  hand  —  15 

That  still,  despite  the  distance  and  the  dark, 

What  was,  again  may  be ;  some  interchange 

Of  grace,  some  splendour  once  thy  very  thought, 

Some  benediction  anciently  thy  smile  : 

—  Never  conclude,  but  raising  hand  and  head  20 

Thither  where  eyes,  that  cannot  reach,  yet  yearn 

For  all  hope,  all  sustainment,  all  reward, 

Their  utmost  up  and  on,  —  so  blessing  back 

In  those  thy  realms  of  help,  that  heaven  thy  home, 

Some  whiteness  which,  I  judge,  thy  face  makes  proud,          25 

Some  wanness  where,  I  think,  thy  foot  may  fall ! " 

"his,"  v.  5,  the  sun's.  "Yet  human,"  v.  6  :  though  'kindred' 
to  the  sun,  yet  proved  'human'  .  .  .  'when  the  first  summons,' 
etc.  "This  is  the  same  voice,"  v.  n,  i.e.,  a  voice  of  the  same 
import  as  was  "the  first  summons,"  —  one  invoking  help.  The 
nouns  "interchange,"  "splendour,"  "benediction,"  vv.  17,  18, 
19,  are  appositives  of  "what,"  v.  17.  "Never  conclude,"  v.  20, 
to  be  construed  with  "commence,"  v.  13  :  "Never  [may  I]  con- 
clude." "Their  utmost  up  and  on,"  v.  23,  to  be  construed  with 
"yearn,"  v.  21.  "so,"  v.  23,  looks  back  to  "raising  hand  and 
head,"  etc.  " Some  whiteness "  .  .  .  v.  25,  "  Some  wanness"  .  .  . 
v.  26,  to  be  construed  with  "blessing  back." 

See  an  elaborate  analysis  of  this  Invocation,  by  Dr.  F.  J. 
Furnivall,  read  at  the  forty-eighth  meeting  of  the  Browning 
Society,  February  25,  1887,  being  No.  XXXIX.  of  the  Society's 
Papers. 

But,  after  all,  the  difficulties  in  Browning  which  result  from  the 
construction  of  the  language,  be  that  what  it  may,  are  not  the 

1  In  the  last  three  verses  of '  The  Ring  and  the  Book '  the  poet  again  ad- 
dresses his  "  Lyric  Love  "  to  express  the  wish  that  the  Ring,  which  he  has 


84  BROWNINGS  OBSCURITY. 

main  difficulties,  as  has  been  too  generally  supposed.  The  main 
difficulties  are  quite  independent  of  the  construction  of  the  language. 

Many  readers,  especially  those  who  take  an  intellectual  attitude 
toward  all  things,  in  the  heavens  above  and  in  the  earth  beneath, 
suppose  that  they  are  prepared  to  understand  almost  anything 
which  is  understandable  if  it  is  only  put  right.  This  is  a  most 
egregious  mistake,  especially  in  respect  to  the  subtle  and  complex 
spiritual  experiences  which  the  more  deeply  subjective  poetry  em- 
bodies. What  De  Quincey  says  in  his  paper  on  Kant,1  of  the  com- 
prehension of  the  higher  philosophical  truths,  can,  with  still  better 
reason,  be  said  of  the  responsiveness  to  the  higher  spiritual  truths  : 
"  No  complex  or  very  important  truth  was  ever  yet  transferred  in 
full  development  from  one  mind  to  another  :  truth  of  that  charac- 
ter is  not  a  piece  of  furniture  to  be  shifted ;  it  is  a  seed  which 
must  be  sown,  and  pass  through  the  several  stages  of  growth.  No 
doctrine  of  importance  can  be  transferred  in  a  matured  shape  into 
any  man's  understanding  from  without :  it  must  arise  by  an  act  of 
genesis  within  the  understanding  itself." 

And  so  it  may  be  said  in  regard  to  the  responsiveness  to 
the  higher  spiritual  truths  —  I  don't  say  comprehension  of  the 
higher  spiritual  truths  (that  word  pertains  rather  to  an  intel- 

rounded  out  of  the  rough  ore  of  the  Roman  murder  case,  might  but  lie  "  in 
guardianship  "  outside  hers, 

"  Thy  rare  gold  ring  of  verse  (the  poet  praised) 

Linking  our  England  to  his  Italy." 
The  reference  is  to  the  inscription  on  Casa  Guidi,  Via  Maggiore,  9.  Florence : 

QUI   SCRISSE   E  MORI 

ELISABETTA   BARRETT  BROWNING 

CHE   IN   CUORE  DI   DONNA   CONCILIAVA 

SCIENZA    DI    DOTTO    E    SPIRITO    DI    POETA 

E   FECE   DEL   SUO   VERSO  AUREO  ANELLO 

FRA    ITALIA    E    INGHILTERRA 

PONE  QUESTO   MEMORIA 

FIRENZE   GRATA 

1861. 
1  '  Letters  to  a  Young  Man.'    Letter  V. 


THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE.  85 

lectual  grasp),  but  responsiveness  to  the  higher  spiritual  truths. 
Spiritual  truths  must  be  spiritually  responded  to ;  they  are  not 
and  cannot  be  intellectually  comprehended.  The  condition  of 
such  responsiveness  it  may  require  a  long  while  to  fulfil.  New 
attitudes  of  the  soul,  a  /ieruvota,  may  be  demanded,  before 
such  responsiveness  is  possible.  And  what  some  people  may 
regard  in  the  higher  poetry  as  obscure,  by  reason  of  the  mode  of 
its  presentation  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  may  be  only  relatively  so 
—  that  is,  the  obscurity  may  be  wholly  due  to  the  wrong  attitudes, 
or  the  no  attitudes,  of  their  own  souls,  and  to  the  limitations  of 
their  spiritual  experiences.  In  that  case  "  the  patient  must  min- 
ister to  himself." 

While  on  the  subject  of  "  obscurity,"  I  must  notice  a  difficulty 
which  the  reader  at  first  experiences  in  his  study  of  Browning's 
poetry  —  a  difficulty  resulting  from  the  poet's  favorite  art-form, 
the  dramatic  or  psychologic  monologue.1  The  largest  portion  of 
his  voluminous  poetry  is  in  this  form.  Some  speaker  is  made  to 
reveal  his  character,  and,  sometimes,  by  reflection,  or  directly,  the 
character  of  some  one  else  —  to  set  forth  some'  subtle  and  com- 
plex soul-mood,  some  supreme,  all-determining  movement  or 

1  The  dramatic  monologue  differs  from  a  soliloquy  in  this :  while  there  is 
but  one  speaker,  the  presence  of  a  silent  second  person  is  supposed,  to  whom 
the  arguments  of  the  speaker  are  addressed.  Perhaps  such  a  situation  may 
be  termed  a  novelty  of  invention  in  our  Poet.  It  is  obvious  that  the  dramatic 
monologue  gains  over  the  soliloquy  in  that  it  allows  the  artist  greater  room  in 
which  to  work  out  his  conception  of  character.  We  cannot  gaze  long  at  a 
solitary  figure  on  a  canvas,  however  powerfully  treated,  without  feeling  some 
need  of  relief.  In  the  same  way  a  soliloquy  (comp.  the  great  soliloquies  of 
Shakespeare)  cannot  be  protracted  to  any  great  length  without  wearying  the 
listener.  The  thoughts  of  a  man  in  self-communion  are  apt  to  run  in  a  cer- 
tain circle,  and  to  assume  a  monotony.  The  introduction  of  a  second  person 
acting  powerfully  upon  the  speaker  throughout,  draws  the  latter  forth  into  a 
more  complete  and  varied  expression  of  his  mind.  The  silent  person  in  the 
background,  who  may  be  all  the  time  master  of  the  situation,  supplies  a  pow- 
erful stimulus  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader.  —  REV.  PROF.  E.  JOHNSON'S 
Paper  on  'Bishop  Blougrani's  Apology1  (^Bro~Mning  Soc.  Papers]  Pt.  III., 
p.  279). 


86  THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 

experience  of  a  life ;  or,  it  may  be,  to  ratiocinate  subtly  on  some 
curious  question  of  theology,  morals,  philosophy,  or  art.  Now  it  is 
in  strictly  preserving  the  monologue  character  that  obscurity  often 
results.  A  monologue  often  begins  with  a  startling  abruptness, 
and  the  reader  must  read  along  some  distance  before  he  gathers 
what  the  beginning  means.  Take  the  monologue  of  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi  for  example.  The  situation  is  necessarily  left  more  or  less 
unexplained.  The  poet  says  nothing  in  propria  persona,  and  no 
reply  is  made  to  the  speaker  by  the  person  or  persons  addressed. 
Sometimes  a  look,  a  gesture,  or  a  remark,  must  be  supposed  on 
the  part  of  the  one  addressed,  which  occasions  a  responsive  re- 
mark. Sometimes  the  speaker  imputes  a  question ;  and  the  reader 
is  sometimes  obliged  to  stop  and  consider  whether  a  question  is 
imputed  by  the  speaker  to  the  one  he  is  addressing,  or  is  a  direct 
question  of  his  own.  This  is  often  the  case  throughout  'The  Ring 
and  the  Book.'  But  to  the  initiated,  these  features  of  the  mono- 
logue present  little  or  no  difficulty,  and  they  conduce  to  great  com- 
pactness of  composition  —  a  closeness  of  texture  which  the  reader 
comes  in  time  to  enjoy,  and  to  prefer  to  a  more  loosely  woven 
diction. 

The  monologue  entitled  '  My  Last  Duchess.  Ferrara '  is  a  good 
example  of  the  constitution  of  this  art-form.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  perfect  in  artistic  treatment,  and  exhibits  all  the  features  I 
have  just  noticed.  Originally,  this  monologue  and  that  now  en- 
titled '  Count  Gismond.  Aix  in  Provence,'  had  the  common  title, 
'  Italy  and  France,'  the  former  being  No.  I.  Italy ;  the  latter,  No. 
II.  France.  The  poet,  no  doubt,  afterward  thought  that  the 
Duke  of  the  one  monologue,  and  the  Count  of  the  other,  could 
not  justly  be  presented  as  representatives,  respectively,  of  Italy 
and  France.  In  giving  the  monologues  new  titles,  'My  Last 
Duchess '  and  '  Count  Gismond,'  he  added  to  the  one,  '  Ferrara,' 
and  to  the  other,  '  Aix  in  Provence,'  thus  locally  restricting  the 
order  of  character  which  they  severally  represent. 

In  '  My  Last  Duchess,'  the  speaker  is  a  soulless  virtuoso  —  a 
natural  product  of  a  proud,  arrogant,  and  exclusive  aristocracy,  on 


THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE.  8/ 

the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other,  of  an  old  and  effete  city,  like 
P'errara,  where  art,  rather  than  ministering  to  soul-life  and  true 
manliness  of  character,  has  become  an  end  to  itself — is  valued 
for  its  own  sake. 

The  Duke  is  showing,  with  the  weak  pride  of  the  mere  virtuoso, 
a  portrait  of  his  last  Duchess,  to  some  one  who  has  been  sent  to 
negotiate  another  marriage.  We  see  that  he  is  having  an  entertain- 
ment or  reception  of  some  kind  in  his  palace,  and  that  he  has 
withdrawn  from  the  company  with  the  envoy  to  the  picture-gallery 
on  an  upper  floor.  He  has  pulled  aside  the  curtain  from  before 
the  portrait,  and  in  remarking  on  the  expression  which  the  artist, 
Fra  Pandolf.  has  given  to  the  face,  he  is  made  to  reveal  a  fiendish 
jealousy  on  his  part,  occasioned  by  the  sweetness  and  joyousness  of 
his  late  Duchess,  who,  he  thought,  should  show  interest  in  nothing 
but  his  own  fossilized  self.  "She  had,"  he  says,  "a  heart — how 
shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  made  glad,  too  easily  impressed  ;  she  liked 
whate'er  she  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere.  Sir, 
'twas  all  one  !  My  favour  at  her  breast,  the  dropping  of  the  day- 
light in  the  West,  the  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool  broke 
in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule  she  rode  with  round  the 
terrace  —  all  and  each  would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving 
speech,  or  blush,  at  least.  She  thanked  men,  —  good !  but 
thanked  somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked  my  gift 
of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name  with  anybody's  gift." 

Her  fresh  interest  in  things,  and  the  sweet  smile  she  had  for  all, 
due  to  a  generous  soul-life,  proved  fatal  to  the  lovely  Duchess  : 
"  Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt,  whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who 
passed  without  much  the  same  smile  ?  This  grew ;  I  gave  com- 
mands ;  than  all  smiles  stopped  together." 

He  succeeded,  and  he  seems  to  be  proud  of  it,  in  shutting  off 
all  her  life-currents,  pure,  and  fresh,  and  sparkling,  as  they  were, 
and  we  must  suppose  that  she  then  sank  slowly  and  uncom- 
plainingly away.  What  a  deep  pathos  there  is  in  "  then  all  smiles 
stopped  together  "  ! ' 

1 "  I   gave  commands "  certainly  must  not  be  understood   to  mean  com- 


88  THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 

The  contemptible  meanness  and  selfishness  of  jealousy  were 
never  exhibited  with  greater  power,  than  they  are  exhibited  in  this 
short  monologue  —  a  power  largely  due  to  the  artistic  treatment. 
The  jealousy  of  Leontes,  in  '  The  Winter's  Tale,'  of  Shakespeare, 
is  nobility  itself,  in  comparison  with  the  Duke's.  How  distinctly, 
while  indirectly,  the  sweet  Duchess  is,  with  a  few  masterly  touches, 
placed  before  us  !  The  poet  shows  his  artistic  skill  especially  in 
his  indirect,  reflected  portraitures. 

This  short  composition,  comprising  as  it  do£s  but  fifty-six  lines, 
is,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  prove  the  poet  a  consummate  artist. 
Tennyson's  technique  is  quite  perfect,  almost  "faultily  faultless," 
indeed ;  but  in  no  one  of  his  compositions  has  he  shown  an  equal 
degree  of  art-power,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word. 

"  That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Frk  Pandolf 's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said, 
'  Fra  Pandolf  by  design :  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  '  Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,'  or  '  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat : '  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

mands  for  her  death,  as  it  is  understood  by  the  writer  of  the  articles  in  '  The 
Saint  Paul's  Magazine '.  for  December,  1870,  and  January,  1871. 


THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE.  89 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say?  —  too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed  ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one  !     My  favour  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men,  —  good!  but  thanked 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  '  Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me  ;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark '  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?     This  grew  ;  I  gave  commands ; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbjuck a  cast  in  bronze  for  me ! 

The  last  ten  verses  illustrate  well  the  poet's  skilful  management 
of  his  difficult  art-form.     After  the  envoy  has  had  his  look  at  the 

1  Claus  of  Innsbruck  and  also  Fra  Pandolf  (v.  3)  are  imaginary  artists. 


go  THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 

portrait,  the  Duke,  thinking  it  time  to  return  to  his  guests,  says 
"  Will't  it  please  you  rise?  We'll  meet  the  company  below,  then." 
His  next  speech,  which  indicates  what  he  has  been  talking  about, 
during  the  envoy's  study  of  the  picture,  must  be  understood  as 
uttered  while  they  are  moving  toward  the  stairway.  The  next, 
"  Nay,  we'll  go  together  down,  sir,"  shows  that  they  have  reached 
the  head  of  the  stairway,  and  that  the  envoy  has  politely  motioned 
the  Duke  to  lead  the  way  down.  This  is  implied  in  the  "  Nay." 
The  last  speech  indicates  that  on  the  stairway  is  a  window  which 
affords  an  outlook  into  the  courtyard,  where  he  calls  the  attention 
of  the  envoy  to  a  Neptune,  taming  a  sea-horse,  cast  in  bronze  for 
him  by  Glaus  of  Innsbruck.  The  pride  of  the  virtuoso  is  also 
implied  in  the  word  "  though." 

It  should  be  noticed,  also,  that  the  Duke  values  his  wife's  pic- 
ture wholly  as  a  picture,  not  as  the  "  counterfeit  presentment "  and 
reminder  of  a  sweet  and  lovely  woman,  who  might  have  blessed 
his  life,  if  he  had  been  capable  of  being  blessed.  It  is  to  him  a 
picture  by  a  great  artist,  and  he  values  it  only  as  such.  He  says, 
parenthetically,  "  since  none  puts  by  the  curtain  I  have  drawn  for 
you,  but  I."  It's  too  precious  a  work  of  art  to  be  entrusted  to  any- 
body else. 


BROWNING'S  VERSE, 


IV. 

BROWNING'S  VERSE. 

IT  seems  to  be  admitted,  even  by  many  of  the  poet's  most  de- 
voted students,  that  his  verse  is,  in  its  general  character,  harsh 
and  rugged.  To  judge  it  fairly,  one  must  free  his  mind  of  many 
merely  conventional  canons  in  regard  to  verse.  Pure  music  is  ab- 
solute. The  music  of  verse  moves,  or  should  move,  under  the 
conditions  of  the  thought  which  articulates  it.  It  should  serve  as 
a  chorus  to  the  thought,  expressing  a  mystic  sympathy  with  it. 
Verse  may  be  very  musical,  and  yet  more  or  less  mechanical ;  that 
is,  it  may  clothe  thought  and  sentiment,  but  not  be  a  part  of  it,  not 
embody  it.  Unrippled  verse,  which  many  readers  demand,  must 
be  more  or  less  mechanical.  Such  verse  flows  according  to  its  own 
sweet  will,  independently  of  the  thought-articulation.  But  the 
thought-articulation  may  be  so  flimsy  that  it's  well  enough  for 
the  verse  so  to  flow. 

The  careful  student  of  Browning's  language-shaping  must  dis- 
cover —  the  requisite  susceptibility  to  vitality  of  form  being  sup- 
posed —  that  his  verse  is  remarkably  organic  :  often,  indeed,  more 
organic,  even  when  it  appears  to  be  clumsy,  than  the  "  faultily 
faultless  "  verse  of  Tennyson.  The  poet  who  has  written  '  In  a 
Gondola,'  '  By  the  Fireside,'  '  Meeting  at  Night,'  '  Parting  at  Morn- 
ing,' 'Gold  Harr,'  'May  and  Death,'  'Love  among  the  Ruins,' 
'  Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad,'  '  Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea,' 
the  Incantation  in  '  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess '  (some  of  which 
are  both  song  and  picture),  and  many,  many  more  that  might  be 
named,  certainly  has  the  very  highest  faculty  of  word  and  verse 
music,  of  music,  too,  that  is  entirely  new  in  English  Poetry ;  and 
it  can  be  shown  that  he  always  exercises  that  faculty  whenever 


92  BROWNINGS  VERSE. 

there's  a  real  artistic  occasion  for  it,  not  otherwise.  Verse-music 
is  never  with  him  a  mere  literary  indulgence.  The  grotesquerie  of 
rhythm  and  rhyme  which  some  of  his  poems  exhibit,  is  as  organic 
as  any  other  feature  of  his  language-shaping,  and  shows  the 
rarest  command  of  language.  He  has  been  charged  with  having 
"  failed  to  reach  continuous  levels  of  musical  phrasing."  It's  a 
charge  which  every  one  who  appreciates  Browning's  verse  in  its 
higher  forms  (and  its  higher  forms  are  not  those  which  are  ad- 
dressed especially  to  the  physical  ear)  will  be  very  ready  to  admit. 
In  the  general  tenor  of  his  poetry,  he  is  above  the  Singer,  —  he  is 
the  Seer  and  Revealer,  who  sees  great  truths  beyond  the  bounds 
of  the  territory  of  general  knowledge,  instead  of  working  over 
truths  within  that  territory ;  and  no  seer  of  modern  times  has  had 
his  eyes  more  clearly  purged  with  euphrasy  and  rue.  Poetry  is 
with  him,  in  the  language  of  Mr.  E.  Paxton  Hood  ('  Eclectic  and 
Congregational  Rev.,'  Dec.,  1868),  "no  jingle  of  words,  or  pretty 
amusement  for  harpsichord  or  piano,  but  rather  a  divine  trigonom- 
etry, a  process  of  celestial  triangulation,  a  taking  observations  of 
celestial  places  and  spheres,  an  attempt  to  estimate  our  world,  its 
place,  its  life  amidst  the  boundless  immeasurable  sweeps  of  space 
and  time ;  or  if  describing,  then  describing  the  animating  stories 
of  the  giants,  how  they  fought  and  fell,  or  conquered  ...  a  great 
all-inclusive  strength  of  song,  which  is  as  a  battle  march  to  war- 
riors, or  as  the  refreshment  of  brooks  and  dates  to  the  spent  and 
toiling  soldiers  on  their  way,  is  more  than  the  pretty  idyll,  whose 
sweet  and  plaintive  story  pleases  the  idle  hour  or  idle  ear." 

The  Rev.  Prof.  E.  Johnson,  in  the  section  entitled  '  Poets  of  the 
Ear  and  of  the  Eye,'  of  his  valuable  paper  on  '  Conscience  and 
Art  in  Browning '  ('  Browning  Soc.  Papers,'  Part  III\,  pp.  345-380), 
has  ably  shown  that  "  the  economy  of  music  is  a  necessity  of 
Browning's  Art"  —  that  music,  instead  of  ever  being  an  end  to 
itself,  is  with  him  a  means  to  a  much  higher  end.  He  says  :  — 

"  All  poetry  may  be  classified  according  to  its  form  or  its  contents. 
Formal  classification  is  easy,  but  of  little  use.  When  we  have  distin- 
guished compositions  as  dramatic,  lyrical,  or  characterized  a  poet  in 


BROWNING'S   VERSE. 


93 


like  manner,  we  have  done  little.  What  we  want  to  ascertain  is  the 
peculiar  quality  of  the  imaginative  stuff  with  which  he  plastically  works, 
and  to  appreciate  its  worth.  This  is  always  a  great  task,  but  one  par- 
ticularly necessary  in  the  case  of  Browning,  because  the  stuff  in  which 
he  has  wrought  is  so  novel  in  the  poet's  hands.  Psychology  itself  is 
comparatively  a  new  and  modern  study,  as  a  distinct  science ;  but 
a  psychological  poet,  who  has  made  it  his  business  to  clothe  psychic 
abstractions  '  in  sights  and  sounds,'  is  entirely  a  novel  appearance  in 
literature. 

"  Now  that  phrase  '  clothing  in  sights  and  sounds '  may  yield  us  the 
clue  to  the  classification  we  are  seeking.  The  function  of  artists,  that 
is,  musicians,  poets  in  the  narrower  sense,  and  painters,  is  to  clothe 
Truth  in  sights  and  sounds  for  the  hearing  and  seeing  of  us  all.  Their 
call  to  do  this  lies  in  their  finer  and  fuller  aesthetic  faculty.  The  sense 
of  hearing  and  that  of  seeing  stand  in  polar  opposition,  and  thus  a 
natural  scale  offers  itself  by  which  we  may  rank  and  arrange  our  artists. 
At  the  one  end  of  the  scale  is  the  acoustic  artist,  i.e.  the  musician.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  scale  is  the  optic  artist,  the  painter  and  sculptor. 
Between  these,  and  comprising  both  these  activities  in  his  own,  is  the 
poet,  who  is  both  acoustic  and  optic  artist.  He  translates  the  sounds 
of  the  world,  both  external  and  internal,  —  the  tumult  of  storms,  the 
murmurs  of  waves,  the  susitrrus  of  the  woodland,  the  tinkling  of  brooks, 
the  throbbing  of  human  hearts,  the  cries  of  all  living  creatures ;  all 
those  groans  of  pain,  stammers  of  desire,  shrieks  of  despair,  yawns 
even  of  languor,  which  are  ever  breaking  out  of  the  heart  of  things ; 
and  beside  all  this,  the  hearsay,  commonplace,  proverbial  lore  of  the 
world.  He  turns  these  into  melodies  which  shall  be  caught  up  by 
those  who  listen.  In  short,  he  converts  by  his  alchemy  the  common 
stuff  of  pain  and  of  joy  into  music.  But  he  is  optic  as  well  as 
acoustic ;  that  is,  he  calls  up  at  the  same  time  by  his  art  a  pro- 
cession of  images  which  march  or  dance  across  the  theatre  of  the 
listener's  fancy.  Now  the  question  of  classification  on  this  scheme 
comes  to  this,  Does  the  particular  poet  who  invites  our  attention  deal 
more  with  the  aesthesis  of  the  ear  or  with  that  of  the  eye?  Does  he 
more  fill  our  ear  with  sweet  tunes  or  our  fancy  with  shapes  and 
colours?  Does  he  compel  us  to  listen  and  shut  our  eyes,  or  to  open 
our  eyes  wide  and  dispense  with  all  but  the  faintest  musical  accom- 
paniment? What  sense,  in  short,  does  he  mainly  address  himself 
to?  Goethe  said  that  he  was  a  'seeing'  man;  W.  von  Humboldt, 


94 


BROWNINGS  VERSE. 


the  great  linguist,  that  he  was  a  'listening'  man.  The  influence 
of  Milton's  blindness  on  his  poetry  was  noticed  by  Lessing. 
The  short-sightedness  of  Wieland  has  also  been  detected  in  his 
poetry. 

"If  we  apply  these  tests  to  Browning,  there  can  be,  I  think,  no  doubt 
as  to  the  answer.  He  is,  in  common  with  all  poets,  both  musician  and 
painter,  but  much  more  the  latter  than  the  former.  He  is  never  for  a 
moment  the  slave  of  his  ear,  if  I  may  so  express  it.  We  know  that  he 
has,  on  the  contrary,  the  mastery  of  music.  But  music  helps  and  sup- 
ports his  imagination,  never  controls  it.  Music  is  to  Browning  an  in- 
articulate revelation  of  the  truth  of  the  supersensual  world,  the  'earn- 
est of  a  heaven.'  He  is  no  voluptuary  in  music.  Music  is  simply  the 
means  by  which  the  soul  wings  its  way  into  the  azure  of  spiritual 
theory  and  contemplation.  Take  only  'Saul'  and  'Abt  Vogler'  in 
illustration.  '  Saul '  is  a  magnificent  interpretation  of  the  old  theme,  a 
favorite  with  the  mystics,  that  evil  spirits  are  driven  out  by  music. 
But  in  this  interpretation  it  is  not  the  mere  tones,  the  thrumming  on 
the  harp,  it  is  the  religious  movement  of  the  intelligence,  it  is  the  truth 
of  Divine  love  throbbing  in  every  chord,  which  constitutes  the  spell. 
And  so  in  '  Abt  Vogler ' ;  the  abbot's  instrument  is  only  the  means 
whereby  he  strikes  out  the  light  of  faith  and  hope  within  him.  Not  to 
dwell  upon  this  point,  I  would  only  say  that  it  seems  clear  that  Brown- 
ing has  the  finest  acoustic  gifts,  and  could,  if  he  had  chosen,  have 
scattered  musical  bons-bons  through  every  page.  But  he  has  printed  no 
'versus  inopes  rerum,  nugaeque  canorae'  (Hor.  ad  Pis.).  He  has  had 
higher  objects  in  view,  and  has  dispensed  better  stuff  than  that  which 
lingers  in  the  ear,  and  tends  to  suppress  rather  than  support  the 
higher  activity  of  thought. 

"  When  for  a  moment  he  shuts  his  eyes,  and  falls  purely  into  the 
listening  or  '  musing '  mood,  he  becomes  the  instrument  of  a  rich  deep 
music,  breaking  out  of  the  heart  of  the  unseen  world,  as  in  the  Dirge 
of  unfaithful  Poets  in  'Paracelsus,'  or  the  Gypsy's  Incantation  in  the 
'  Flight  of  the  Duchess,'  or  the  Meditation  at  the  crisis  of  Sordello's 
temptation. 

"When  the  keen  inquisitive  intelligence  is  in  its  full  waking 
activity  there  grows  '  more  of  the  words '  and  thought,  and  '  less  of  the 
music,'  to  invert  a  phrase  of  the  poet's.  The  melody  ceases,  the 
rhythm  is  broken,  as  in  all  intense,  earnest  conversation.  At  times 
only  the  tinkle  of  the  pairing  rhymes,  of  which  Browning  has  made  a 


BROWNINGS  VERSE. 


95 


most  witty  use,  reminds  that  we  are  called  to  partake  a  mood  in  which 
commonplace  associations  are  melting  into  the  ideal.  I  believe  the 
economy  of  music  is  a  necessity  of  Browning's  art ;  and  it  would  be 
only  fair,  if  those  who  attack  him  on  this  ground  would  consider  how 
far  thought  of  such  quality  as  his  admits  of  being  chanted,  or  other- 
wise musically  accompanied.  In  plain  words  the  problem  is,  how  far 
the  pleasures  of  sound  and  of  sense  can  be  united  in  poetry ;  and  it 
will  be  found  in  every  case  that  a  poet  sacrifices  something  either  to  the 
one  or  to  the  other.  Browning  has  said  something  in  his  arch  way  on 
this  point.  In  effect,  he  remarks,  Italian  prose  can  render  a  simple 
thought  more  sweetly  to  the  ear  than  either  Greek  or  English  verse. 
It  seems  clear  from  many  other  of  his  critical  remarks  that  he  consid- 
ers the  demand  for  music  in  preference  to  thought  in  poetry,  as  the 
symptom  of  a  false  taste. 

"  Browning's  poetry  is  to  be  gazed  at,  rather  than  listened  to  and  re- 
cited, for  the  most  part.  It  is  infinitely  easier  to  listen  for  an  hour  to 
spiritual  music  than  to  fix  one's  whole  attention  for  a  few  minutes  on  a 
spiritual  picture.  In  the  latter  act  of  mind  we  find  a  rich  musical  ac- 
companiment distracting,  while  a  slight  musical  accompaniment  is 
probably  helpful.  And  perhaps  we  may  characterize  Browning's 
poetry  as  a  series  of  spiritual  pictures  with  a  faint  musical  accompani- 
ment. 

"  For  illustration  by  extreme  contrast,  Milton  may  be  compared  with 
Browning.  Milton  was  a  great  hearsay  poet,  Browning  repeats  no 
hearsay.  In  reading  Milton,  the  difficulty  is  to  keep  up  the  mental  ten- 
sion where  there  is  so  little  thought,  strictly  speaking.  With  Browning 
the  highest  tension  is  exacted. 

"  He  is  pre-eminently  the  looker,  the  seer,  the  '  maker-see ' ;  the 
reporter,  the  painter  of  the  scenery  and  events  of  the  soul.  And  if  the 
sense  of  vision  is  our  noblest,  and  we  instinctively  express  the  acts  of  in- 
telligence in  terms  drawn  from  physical  vision,  the  poet  who  leans  most 
towards  the  '  Seer  of  Power  and  Love  in  the  absolute,  Beauty  and 
Goodness  in  the  concrete,'  takes  the  higher  rank.  This  is  no  matter 
for  bigotry  of  taste.  Singers  and  seers,  musicians  and  reporters,  and 
reproducers  of  every  degree,  who  have  something  to  tell  us  or  to  show 
us  of  the  '  world  as  God  has  made  it,  where  all  is  beauty,'  we  have 
need  of  all.  But  of  singers  there  are  many,  of  seers  there  are  few, 
that  is  all." 


96  BROWNINGS  VERSE. 

In  the  most  difficult  form  of  verse,  namely,  blank  verse,  Brown- 
ing has  shown  himself  a  great  master,  and  has  written  some  of  the 
very  best  in  the  literature.  And  great  as  is  the  extent  of  his  blank 
verse,  the  'Ring  and  the  Book'  alone  containing  21,116  verses,  it 
never  entirely  lapses  into  prose. 

One  grand  merit  of  blank  verse  is  in  the  sweep  of  it ;  another, 
in  its  pause-melody,  which  can  be  secured  only  by  a  skilful  recur- 
rence of  an  unbroken  measure;  without  this,  variety  of  pause 
ceases  to  be  variety,  and  results  in  a  metrical  chaos ;  a  third  is  in 
its  lightsomeness  of  movement,  its  go,  when  well-freighted  with 
thought.  All  these  merits  are  found  united  in  much  of  Browning's 
blank  verse,  especially  in  that  of '  The  Ring  and  the  Book.'  As 
an  example  of  this,  take  the  following  passage  from  the  monologue 
of  the  Canon  Caponsacchi.  It  gives  expression  to  his  vision  of 
Count  Guide's  spiritual  down-sliding ;  "  in  the  lowest  deep  a  lower 
deep  still  threatening  to  devour  him,  opens  wide  "  :  — 

"  And  thus  I  see  him  slowly  and  surely  edged 
Off  all  the  table-land  whence  life  upsprings 
Aspiring  to  be  immortality, 
As  the  snake,  hatched  on  hill-top  by  mischance, 
Despite  his  wriggling,  slips,  slides,  slidders  down 
Hill-side,  lies  low  and  prostrate  on  the  smooth 
Level  of  the  outer  place,  lapsed  in  the  vale : 
So  I  lose  Guido  in  the  loneliness, 
Silence,  and  dusk,  till  at  the  doleful  end, 
At  the  horizontal  line,  creation's  verge, 
From  what  just  is  to  absolute  nothingness  — 
Lo,  what  is  this  he  meets,  strains  onward  still? 
What  other  man,  deep  further  in  the  fate, 
Who,  turning  at  the  prize  of  a  foot-fall 
To  flatter  him  and  promise  fellowship, 
Discovers  in  the  act  a  frightful  face  — 
Judas,  made  monstrous  by  much  solitude  ! 
The  two  are  at  one  now !    Let  them  love  their  love 
That  bites  and  claws  like  hate,  or  hate  their  hate 
That  mops  and  mows  and  makes  as  it  were  love  ! 
There,  let  them  each  tear  each  in  devil's-fun, 


BROWNIN&S  VERSE.  97 

Or  fondle  this  the  other  while  malice  aches  — 

Both  teach,  both  learn  detestability  ! 

Kiss  him  the  kiss,  Iscariot !     Pay  that  back, 

That  smatch  o1  the  slaver  blistering  on  your  lip  — 

By  the  better  trick,  the  insult  he  spared  Christ  — 

Lure  him  the  lure  o1  the  letters,  Aretine ! 

Lick  him  o'er  slimy-smooth  with  jelly-filth 

O*  the  verse-and-prose  pollution  in  love's  guise  ! 

The  cockatrice  is  with  the  basilisk ! 

There  let  him  grapple,  denizens  o'  the  dark, 

Foes  or  friends,  but  indissolubly  bound, 

In  their  one  spot  out  of  the  ken  of  God 

Or  care  of  man  for  ever  and  ever  more  !  " 

Browning  has  distinctly  indicated  the  standard  by  which  he 
estimates  art-work,  in  the  closing  paragraph  of  his  Essay  '  On  the 
Poet  objective  and  subjective  ;  on  the  latter's  aim ;  on  Shelley  as 
man  and  poet.' 

"  I  would  rather,"  he  says,  "  consider  Shelley's  poetry  as  a  sub- 
lime fragmentary  essay  towards  a  presentment  of  the  correspond- 
ency of  the  universe  to  Deity,  of  the  natural  to  the  spiritual,  and 
of  the  actual  to  the  ideal,  than  I  would  isolate  and  separately 
appraise  the  worth  of  many  detachable  portions  which  might  be 
acknowledged  as  utterly  perfect  in  a  lower  moral  point  of  view, 
under  the  mere  conditions  of  art.  It  would  be  easy  to  take  my 
stand  on  successful  instances  of  objectivity  in  Shelley :  there  is  the 
unrivalled  '  Cenci ' ;  there  is  the  '  Julian  and  Maddalo '  too  ;  there 
is  the  magnificent  '  Ode  to  Naples ' :  why  not  regard,  it  may  be 
said,  the  less  organized  matter  as  the  radiant  elemental  foam  and 
solution,  out  of  which  would  have  been  evolved,  eventually,  crea- 
tions as  perfect  even  as  those?  But  I  prefer  to  look  for  the 
highest  attainment,  not  simply  the  high,  —  and,  seeing  it,  I  hold 
by  it.  There  is  surely  enough  of  the  work  '  Shelley '  to  be  known 
enduringly  among  men,  and,  I  believe,  to  be  accepted  of  God,  as 
human  work  may  ;  and  around  the  imperfect  proportions  of  such, 
the  most  elaborated  productions  of  ordinary  art  must  arrange 
themselves  as  inferior  illustrations." 


98  BROWNINGS  VERSE. 

The  italics  are  mine.  I  would  say,  but  without  admitting  im- 
perfect art  on  the  part  of  Browning,  for  I  regard  him  as  one  of  the 
greatest  of  literary  artists,  that  he  must  be  estimated  by  the  stand- 
ard presented  in  this  passage,  by  the  "  presentment,"  everywhere 
in  his  poetry,  "  of  the  correspondency  of  the  universe  to  Deity, 
of  the  natural  to  the  spiritual,  and  of  the  actual  to  the  ideal." 

The  same  standard  is  presented  in  '  Andrea  del  Sarto,'  in  '  Old 
Pictures  in  Florence,'  and  in  other  of  his  poems. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


99 


V. 

ARGUMENTS   OF  THE   POEMS.1 

WANTING  is  —  WHAT? 

"  T     OVE,  the  soul  of  soul,  within  the  soul,"  the  Christ-spirit,  the 

J j  spirit  of  the  "  Comer  "  (6  epxoV£V°s>  Matt.  xi.  3),  completes 

incompletion,  reanimates  that  which  without  it  is  dead,  and  admits 
to  a  fellowship  with  the  soul  of  things;  Ubi  caritas,  ibi  claritas. 
See  passage  from  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  quoted  under  '  My  Star.' 

MY  STAR. 

The  following  passage  from  'Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  §  55,  is  an  ex- 
pansion of  the  idea  involved  in  '  My  Star,'  and  is  the  best  com- 
mentary which  can  be  given  on  it :  — 

"  I  search  but  cannot  see 

What  purpose  serves  the  soul  that  strives,  or  world  it  tries 
Conclusions  with,  unless  the  fruit  of  victories 
Stay,  one  and  all,  stored  up  and  guaranteed  its  own 
For  ever,  by  some  mode  whereby  shall  be  made  known 
The  gain  of  every  life.     Death  reads  the  title  clear  — 
What  each  soul  for  itself  conquered  from  out  things  here : 
Since,  in  the  seeing  soul,  all  worth  lies,  I  assert, — 
And  nought  /'  the  world,  which,  save  for  soul  that  sees,  inert 
Was,  is,  and  would  be  ever,  —  stuff  for  transmuting —  null 
And  void  until  man's  breath  evoke  the  beautiful  — 
But,  touched  aright,  prompt  yields  each  particle,  its  tongue 
Of  elemental  flame,  —  no  matter  whence  flame  sprung 

1  It  has  not  been  thought  necessary,  in  these  Arguments,  to  use  quotation 
marks  wherever  expressions  from  the  poems  are  incorporated;  and  especially 
where  they  are  adapted  in  construction  to  the  place  where  they  are  introduced. 


100  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

From  gums  and  spice,  or  else  from  straw  and  rottenness, 
So  long  as  soul  has  power  to  make  them  burn,  express 
What  lights  and  warms  henceforth,  leaves  only  ash  behind, 
Howe'er  the  chance  :  if  soul  be  privileged  to  find 
Food  so  soon  that,  at  first  snatch  of  eye,  suck  of  breath, 
It  shall  absorb  pure  life :  "  etc. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

In  '  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess '  we  are  presented  with  a  gener- 
ous soul-life,  as  exhibited  by  the  sweet,  glad  Duchess,  linked  with 
fossil  conventionalism  and  medisevalism,  and  an  inherited  authority 
which  brooks  no  submissiveness,  as  exhibited  by  the  Duke,  her 
husband,  "  out  of  whose  veins  ceremony  and  pride  have  driven  the 
blood,  leaving  him  but  a  fumigated  and  embalmed  self."  The 
scene  of  the  poem  is  a  "  rough  north  land,"  subject  to  a  Kaiser  of 
Germany.  The  story  is  so  plainly  told  that  no  prose  summary  of 
it  could  make  it  plainer.  Its  deeper  meaning  centres  in  the  incan- 
tation of  the  old  gypsy  woman,  in  which  is  mystically  shadowed 
forth  the  long  and  painful  discipline  through  which  the  soul  must 
pass  before  being  fully  admitted  to  the  divine  arcanum,  "how 
love  is  the  only  good  in  the  world." 

The  poem  is  one  which  readily  lends  itself  to  an  allegorical  in- 
terpretation. For  such  an  interpretation,  the  reader  is  referred  to 
Mrs.  Owen's  paper,  read  before  the  Browning  Society  of  London, 
and  contained  in  the  Society's  Papers,  Part  IV.,  pp.  49  *  et  seq. 
It  is  too  long  to  be  given  here. 

THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

"  The  speaker  is  a  man  who  has  to  give  up  the  woman  he  loves ; 
but  his  love  is  probably  reciprocated,  however  inadequately,  for 
his  appeal  for  'a  last  ride  together'  is  granted.  The  poem  re- 
flects his  changing  moods  and  thoughts  as  'here  we  are  riding, 
she  and  I.'  'Fail  I  alone  in  words  and  deeds?  Why,  all  men 
strive,  and  who  succeeds  ? '  Careers,  even  careers  called  '  suc- 
cessful,' pass  in  review  —  statesmen,  poets,  sculptors,  musicians — 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  IOi 

each  fails  in  his  ideal,  for  ideals  are  not  attainable  in  this  life  of 
incompletions.  But  faith  gains  something  for  a  man.  He  has 
loved  this  woman.  That  is  something  gained.  If  this  life  gave 
all,  what  were  there  to  look  forward  to  ?  '  Now,  heaven  and  she 
are  beyond  this  ride.'  Again,  —  and  this  is  his  closing  reflection, — 
"  '  What  if  heaven  be,  that,  fair  and  strong,'  "  etc. 

— Browning  Soc.  Papers,  V.,  144.* 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Perhaps  in  no  other  of  Mr.  Browning's  poems  are  the  spiritual 
uses  of  "  the  love  of  wedded  souls  "  more  fully  set  forth  than  in 
the  poem,  '  By  the  Fireside.' 

The  Monologue  is  addressed  by  a  happy  husband  to  his  "  per- 
fect wife,  my  Leonor."  He  looks  forward  to  what  he  will  do  when 
the  long,  dark  autumn  evenings  come  —  the  evenings  of  declining 
age,  when  the  pleasant  hue  of  his  soul  shall  have  dimmed,  and 
the  music  of  all  its  spring  and  summer  voices  shall  be  dumb  in 
life's  November.  In  his  "  waking  dreams "  he  will  "  live  o'er 
again  "  the  happy  life  he  has  spent  with  his  loved  and  loving  com- 
panion. Passing  out  where  the  backward  vista  ends,  he  will  survey, 
with  her,  the  pleasant  wood  through  which  they  have  journeyed 
together.  To  the  hazel-trees  of  England,  where  their  childhood 
passed,  succeeds  a  rarer  sort,  till,  by  green  degrees,  they  at  last 
slope  to  Italy,  and  youth, —  Italy,  the  woman-country,  loved  by 
earth's  male-lands.  She  being  the  trusted  guide,  they  stand  at  last 
in  the  heart  of  things,  the  heaped  and  dim  woods  all  around  them, 
the  single  and  slim  thread  of  water  slipping  from  slab  to  slab,  the 
mined  chapel  perched  half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge,  reached 
by  the  one-arched  bridge  where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant 
pond,  where  all  day  long  a  bird  sings,  and  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at 
times.  Here,  where  at  afternoon,  or  almost  eve,  the  silence  grows 
conscious  to  that  degree,  one  half  feels  it  must  get  rid  of  what  it 
knows,  they  walked  side  by  side,  arm  in  arm,  and  cheek  to  cheek ; 
cross  silent  the  crumbling  bridge,  pity  and  praise  the  sweet  chapel, 
read  the  dead  builder's  date,  'five,  six,  nine,  recross  the  bridge, 


102  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

take  the  path  again  —  but  wait !  Oh  moment  one  and  infinite  ! 
the  west  is  tender,  with  its  one  star,  the  chrysolite  !  the  sights  and 
sounds,  the  lights  and  shades,  make  up  a  spell ;  a  moment  after, 
and  unseen  hands  are  hanging  the  night  around  them  fast,  but 
they  know  that  a  bar  has  been  broken  between  life  and  life,  that 
they  are  mixed  at  last  in  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

"  The  forests  had  done  it ;  there  they  stood  ; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play : 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  for  good, 

Their  work  was  done  —  we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood." 

Browning  everywhere  lays  great  stress  on  those  moments  of 
exalted  feeling,  when  the  soul  has  an  unchecked  play  and  is  re- 
vealed to  itself.  See  in  the  section  of  the  Introduction  on  Per- 
sonality and  Art,  the  passage  quoted  from  the  Canon's  Monologue 
in  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  and  the  remarks  on  conversion. 

Mr.  Nettleship,  in  his  '  Essays  on  Browning's  Poetry,'  has  traced 
somewhat  minutely  the  symbolical  meaning  which  he  sees  in  the 
scenery  and  circumstances  of  'By  the  Fireside.'  Readers  are 
referred  to  these  Essays. 

PROSPICE. 

The  speaker  in  this  noble  monologue  is  one  who,  having  fought 
a  good  fight  and  finished  his  course,  lived  and  wrought  thoroughly 
in  sense,  and  soul,  and  intellect,  is  now  ready  and  eager  to  en- 
counter the  '  Arch-Fear,'  Death ;  and  then  he  will  clasp  again  his 
Beloved,  the  soul  of  his  soul,  who  has  gone  before.  He  leaves 
the  rest  to  God. 

With  this  monologue  should  be  read  the  mystical  description, 
in  'The  Passing  of  Arthur'  (Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King),  of 
"  the  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  west,"  beginning,  — 

"  A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea." 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


AMPHIBIAN. 


103 


This  poem  is  the  Prologue  to  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair.' 
Amphibian  is  one  who  unites  both  lives  within  himself,  the  ma- 
terial and  the  spiritual,  in  complete  concord  and  mutual  subser- 
vience—  one  who  "lives  and  likes  life's  way,"  and  can  also  free 
himself  of  tether,  leave  the  solid  land,  and,  unable  to  fly,  swim 
"in  the  sphere  which  overbrims  with  passion  and  thought,"  —  the 
sphere  of  poetry.  Such  an  one  may  be  said  to  be  Browning's 
ideal  man.  "  The  value  and  significance  of  flesh  "  is  everywhere 
recognized  in  his  poetry.  "All  good  things  are  ours,"  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra  is  made  to  say,  "  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh 
helps  soul."  The  full  physical  life,  in  its  relation  to  the  spiritual, 
was  never  more  beautifully  sung  than  it  is  sung  by  David,  in  the 
poem  of '  Saul.'  See  the  passage  beginning, "  Oh  !  our  manhood's 
prime  vigor  !  "  and  the  passage  in '  Balaustion's  Adventure,'  descrip- 
tive of  Hercules,  as  he  returns,  after  his  conflict  with  Death,  lead- 
ing back  Alkestis. 

JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

The  original  title  in  '  Dramatis  Personse '  (first  published  in 
1864)  was  'James  Lee.' 

The  poem  consists  of  a  succession  of  soliloquies  (rather  than 
monologues1),  separated,  it  must  be  supposed,  by  longer  or 
shorter  intervals  of  time,  and  expressive  of  subjective  states 
induced  in  a  wife  whose  husband's  love,  if  it  ever  were  love,  in- 
deed, gradually  declines  to  apathy  and  finally  entire  deadness. 
What  manner  of  man  James  Lee  was,  is  only  faintly  intimated. 
The  interest  centres  in,  is  wholly  confined  to,  the  experiences  of 
the  wife's  heart,  under  the  circumstances,  whatever  they  were. 

The  scene  is  a  cottage  on  a  "  bitter  coast  of  France." 

1  For  the  distinction  between  the  soliloquy  and  the  monologue,  see  the 
passage  given  in  a  note,  from  Rev.  Prof.  Johnson's  paper  on  '  Bishop 
gram's  Apology,'  under  the  treatment  of  the  monologue,  p.  85. 


104 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


I.  James  Lee's  Wife  speaks  at  the  Window. — The  first  mis- 
givings  of  her  heart  are  expressed ;   and   these   misgivings  are 
responded  to  by  the  outer  world.     Summer  has  stopped.     Will 
the  summer  of  her  husband's  love  stop  too,  and  be  succeeded 
by   cheerless   winter?      The   revolt   of  her    heart   against   such 
a  thought  is  expressed  in  the  third  stanza. 

II.  By  the  Fireside.  —  Here   the   faintly   indefinite   misgiving 
expressed  in  the  first  soliloquy  has  become  a  gloomy  foreboding 
of  ill ;  "  the  heart  shrinks  and  closes,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has 
attained  it." 

The  fire  on  the  hearth  is  built  of  shipwreck  wood,  which  tells 
of  a  "  dim  dead  woe  befallen  this  bitter  coast  of  France,"  and 
omens  to  her  foreboding  heart  the  shipwreck  of  their  home. 
The  ruddy  shaft  of  light  from  the  casement  must,  she  thinks, 
be  seen  by  sailors  who  envy  the  warm  safe  house  and  happy 
freight.  But  there  are  ships  in  port  which  go  to  ruin, 

"  All  through  worms  i'  the  wood,  which  crept, 
Gnawed  our  hearts  out  while  we  slept : 
That  is  worse." 

Her  mind  reverts  to  the  former  occupants  of  their  house,  as 
if  she  felt  an  influence  shed  within  it  by  some  unhappy  woman 
who,  like  herself,  in  Love's  voyage,  saw  planks  start  and  open  hell 
beneath. 

III.  In  the  Doorway.  —  As  she  looks  out  from  the  doorway, 
everything  tells  of  the  coming  desolation  of  winter,  and  reflects  the 
desolation  which,  she  feels,  is  coming  upon  herself.     The  swallows 
are  ready  to  depart,  the  water  is  in  stripes,  black,  spotted  white 
with  the  wailing  wind.     The  furled  leaf  of  the  fig-tree,  in  front  of 
their  house,  and  the  writhing  vines,  sympathize  with  her  heart  and 
her  spirit :  — 

"  My  heart  shrivels  up  and  my  spirit  shrinks  curled." 

But  there  is  to  them  two,  she  thinks,  no  real  outward  want, 
that  should  mar  their  peace,  small  as  is  their  house,  and  poor 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


105 


their  field.  Why  should  the  change  in  nature  bring  change  to  the 
spirit  which  should  put  life  in  the  darkness  and  cold? 

"  Oh,  live  and  love  worthily,  bear  and  be  bold  ! 
Whom  Summer  made  friends  of,  let  Winter  estrange.1' 

IV.  Along  the  Beach.  —  It  does  not  appear  that  she  anywhere 
in  the  poem  addresses  her  husband,  face  to  face.     It  is  soliloquy 
throughout.     In   this  section  it  does  appear,  more   than   in  the 
others,  that  she  is   directly   addressing   him ;    but  it's  better   to 
understand  it  as  a  mental  expostulation.     He  wanted  her  love, 
and  got  it,  in  its  fulness ;  though  an  expectation  of  all  harvest 
and  no  dearth  was  not  involved  in  that  fulness  of  love. 

Though  love  greatens  and  even  glorifies,  she  knew  there  was 
much  in  him  waste,  with  many  a  weed,  and  plenty  of  passions  run 
to  seed,  but  a  little  good  grain  too.  And  such  as  he  was  she  took 
him  for  hers ;  and  he  found  her  his,  to  watch  the  olive  and  wait 
the  vine  of  his  nature  ;  and  when  rivers  of  oil  and  wine  came  not, 
the  failure  only  proved  that  he  was  her  whole  world,  all  the  same. 
But  he  has  been  averse  to,  and  has  resented,  the  tillage  of  his 
nature  to  which  she  has  lovingly  devoted  herself,  feeling  it  to  be  a 

bondage ; 

"  And  'tis  all  an  old  story,  and  my  despair 
Fit  subject  for  some  new  song :  " 

such  as  the  one  with  which  she  closes  this  soliloquy,  representing 
a  love  which  cares  only  for  outside  charms  (which,  later  in  the 
poem,  we  learn  she  has  not)  and  looks  not  deeper. 

V.  On  the  Cliff.  —  Leaning  on  the  barren  turf,  which  is  dead  to 
the  roots,  and  looking  at  a  rock,  flat  as  an  anvil's  face,  and  left 
dry  by  the  surf,  with  no  trace  of  living  thing  about  it   (Death's 
altar  by  the  lone  shore),  she  sees  a  cricket  spring  gay,  with  films 
of  blue,  upon  the  parched  turf,  and  a  beautiful  butterfly  settle  and 
spread  its  two  red  fans,  on  the  rock.     And  then  there  is  to  her, 
wholly  taken  up,  as  she  is,  with  their  beauty, 

"  No  turf,  no  rock  ;  in  their  ugly  stead, 
See,  wonderful  blue  and  red  ! " 


106  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

and  they  symbolize  to  her,  Love  settling  unawares  upon  men,  the 
level  and  low,  the  burnt  and  bare,  in  themselves  (as  are  the  turf 
and  the  rock). 

VI.  Reading  a  Book,  under  the  Cliff.  —  The  first  six  stanzas  of 
this  section  she  reads  from  a  book.1 

Her  experiences  have  carried  her  beyond  what  these  Lines 
convey,  and  she  speaks  of  them  somewhat  sarcastically  and 
ironically.  This  "  young  man,"  she  thinks,  will  be  wiser  in  time, 

"  for  kind 

Calm  years,  exacting  their  accompt 
Of  pain,  mature  the  mind  :  " 

and  then  the  wind,  when  it  begins  among  the  vines,  so  low,  so  low, 
will  have  for  him  another  language  ;  such  as  this  :  — 

"  Here  is  the  change  beginning,  here  the  lines 

Circumscribe  beauty,  set  to  bliss 
The  limit  time  assigns." 

This  is  the  language  she  has  learned :  We  cannot  draw  one 
beauty  into  our  hearts'  core,  and  keep  it  changeless.  This  is  the 
old  woe  of  the  world ;  the  tune,  to  whose  rise  and  fall  we  live  and 
die.  Rise  with  it,  then  !  Rejoice  that  man  is  hurled  from  change 
to  change  unceasingly,  his  souVs  wings  never  furled .'  To  this 
philosophy  of  life  has  she  been  brought.  But  she  must  still  sadly 
reflect  how  bitter  it  is  for  man  not  to  grave,  on  his  soul,  one  fair, 
good,  wise  thing  just  as  he  grasped  it !  For  himself  death's 
wave ;  while  time  washes  (ah,  the  sting  !)  o'er  all  he'd  sink  to 
save. 

This  reflection  must  be  understood,  in  her  own  case,  as  prompted 
by  her  unconquerable  wifely  love.  It  is  this  which  points  the 
sting. 

1  They  were  composed  by  Mr.  Browning  when  in  his  23d  year,  and  pub- 
lished in  1836,  in  'The  Monthly  Repository,'  vol.  x., pp.  270,  271,  and  entitled 
simply  '  Lines.'  They  were  revised  and  introduced  into  this  section  of  '  James 
Lee,'  which  was  published  in  '  Dramatis  Personae'  in  1864. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


lO/ 


VII.  Among  the  Rocks. — The  brown  old  earth,  in  autumn,  when 
all  the  glories  of  summer  are  fading,  or  have  faded,  wears  a  good 
gigantic  smile,  looking  not  backward,  but  forward,  with  his  feet  in 
the  ripples  of  the  sea-wash,  and  listening  to  the  sweet  twitters  of 
the  white-breasted  sea-lark.      The   entire  stanza  has  a  mystical 
meaning  and  must  be  interpreted  in  its  connection. 

She  has  reached,  in  this  soliloquy,  high  ground  :  — 

"  If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you : 
Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above'.  " 

The  versification  of  the  first  stanza  of  this  section  is  very  lovely, 
and  subtly  responsive  to  the  feeling.  It  exhibits  the  completest 
inspiration.  No  mere  metrical  skill,  nor  metrical  sensibility  even, 
could  have  produced  it. 

VIII.  Beside  the  Drawing-Board.  —  She  is  seated  at  her  draw- 
ing-board, and  has  turned  from  the  poor  coarse  hand  of  some 
little  peasant  girl  she  has  called  in  as  a  model,  to  work,  but  with 
poor  success,  after  a  clay  cast  of  a  hand  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  who 

"  Drew  and  learned  and  loved  again, 
While  fast  the  happy  moments  flew, 

Till  beauty  mounted  into  his  brain 
And  on  the  finger  which  outvied 

His  art,  he  placed  the  ring  that's  there, 
Still  by  fancy's  eye  descried, 

In  token  of  a  marriage  rare  : 

For  him  on  earth  his  art's  despair, 
For  him  in  heaven  his  soul's  fit  bride." 

Her  effort  has  taught  her  a  wholesome  lesson  :  "  the  worth  of 
flesh  and  blood  at  last !  "  There's  something  more  than  beauty 
in  a  hand.  Da  Vinci  would  not  have  turned  from  the  poor  coarse 
hand  of  the  little  girl  who  has  been  standing  by  in  wondering 
patience.  He,  great  artist  as  he  was,  owed  all  he  achieved  to  his 
firm  grasp  upon,  and  struggle  with,  and  full  faith  in,  the  real.  She 
imagines  him  saying  :  — 


108  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

"  Shall  earth  and  the  cramped  moment-space 
Yield  the  heavenly  crowning  grace? 
Now  the  parts  and  then  the  whole !  l 
Who  art  thou  with  stinted  soul 
And  stunted  body,  thus  to  cry 
'I  love,  — shall  that  be  life's  strait  dole? 
I  must  live  beloved  or  die  ! ' 
This  peasant  hand  that  spins  the  wool 
And  bakes  the  bread,  why  lives  it  on, 
Poor  and  coarse  with  beauty  gone,  — 
What  use  survives  the  beauty  ?     Fool ! " 

She  has  been  brought  to  the  last  stage  of  initiation  into  the 
mystery  of  Life.  But,  as  is  shown  in  the  next  and  final  section  of 
the  poem,  the  wifely  heart  has  preserved  its  vitality,  has,  indeed, 
grown  in  vitality,  and  cherishes  a  hope  which  shows  its  undying 
love,  and  is  not  without  a  touch  of  pathos. 

IX.  On  Deck.  —  In  Sections  V.-VIII.  the  soliloquies  are  not  di- 
rected to  the  husband,  as  they  are  in  I  .-IV.  In  this  last,  he  is 
again  mentally  addressed.  She  is  on  board  the  vessel  which  is  to 
convey,  or  is  conveying,  her  to  her  English  home,  or  somewhere 
else.  As  there  is  nothing  in  her  for  him  to  remember,  nothing  in 
her  art  efforts  he  cares  to  see,  nothing  she  was  that  deserves  a 
place  in  his  mind,  she  leaves  him,  sets  him  free,  as  he  has  long 
shown  to  her  he  has  wished  to  be.  She,  conceding  his  attitude 
toward  her,  asks  him  to  concede,  in  turn,  that  such  a  thing  as 
mutual  love  has  been.  There's  a  slight  retaliation  here  of  the 
wounded  spirit.  But  her  heart,  after  all,  must  have  its  way ;  and 
it  cherishes  the  hope  that  his  soul,  which  is  now  cabined,  cribbed, 
confined,  may  be  set  free,  through  some  circumstance  or  other, 
and  she  may  then  become  to  him  what  he  is  to  her.  And  then, 
what  would  it  matter  to  her  that  she  was  ill-favored?  All  sense 
of  this  would  be  sunk  in  the  strange  joy  that  he  possessed  her  as 
she  him,  in  heart  and  brain.  Hers  has  been  a  love  that  was  life, 

1  "  On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect  round."  —  Abt 
Vogler, 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POl-.MS. 


109 


and  a  life  that  was  love.  Could  one  touch  of  such  love  for  her 
come  in  a  word  or  look  of  his,  why,  he  might  turn  into  her  ill- 
favoredness,  she  would  know  nothing  of  it,  being  dead  of  joy. 

A  TALE. 

(The  Epilogue  to  '  The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic.') 

The  speaker  in  this  monologue  is  the  wife  of  a  poet,  and  she 
tells  the  story  to  her  husband,  of  the  little  cricket  that  came  to  the 
aid  of  the  musician  who  was  contending  for  a  prize,  when  one  of 
the  strings  of  his  lyre  snapped.  So  he  made  a  statue  for  himself, 
and  on  the  lyre  he  held  perched  his  partner  in  the  prize.  If  her 
poet-husband  gain  a  prize  in  poetry,  she  asks,  will  some  ticket 
when  his  statue's  built  tell  the  gazer  'twas  a  cricket  helped  his 
crippled  lyre;  that  when  one  string  which  made  "love"  sound 
soft,  was  snapt  in  twain,  she  perched  upon  the  place  left  vacant 
and  duly  uttered,  "  Love,  Love,  Love,"  whene'er  the  bass  asked 
the  treble  to  atone  for  its  somewhat  sombre  drone  ? 

CONFESSIONS. 

The  speaker  is  a  dying  man,  who  replies  very  decidedly  in  the 
negative  to  the  question  of  the  attendant  priest  as  to  whether  he 
views  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears.  The  memory  of  a  past  love, 
which  is  running  through  his  mind,  still  keeps  the  world  bright. 
Of  the  stolen  interviews  with  the  girl  he  loved  he  makes  confes- 
sion, using  the  physic  bottles  which  stand  on  a  table  by  the  bed- 
side to  illustrate  his  story. 

The  monologue  is  a  choice  bit  of  grotesque  humor  touched  with 
pathos. 

RESPECTABILITY. 

By  the  title  of  the  poem  is  meant  respectability  according  to  the 
standard  of  the  beau  month- . 

The  speaker  is  a  woman,  as  is  indicated  in  the  third  stanza. 
The  monologue  is  addressed  to  her  lover. 

Stanza  i  shows  that  they  have  disregarded  the  conventionalities 


!  io  'ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

of  the  beau  monde.  Had  they  conformed  to  them,  many  precious 
months  and  years  would  have  passed  before  they  found  out  the 
world  and  what  it  fears.  One  cannot  well  judge  of  any  state  of 
things  while  in  it.  It  must  be  looked  at  from  the  outside. 

Stanza  2.  The  idea  is  repeated  in  a  more  special  form  in  the 
first  four  verses  of  the  stanza ;  and  in  the  last  four  their  own  non- 
conventional  and  Bohemian  life  is  indicated. 

Stanza  3,  vv.  1-4.  The  speaker  knows  that  this  beau  monde  does 
not  proscribe  love,  provided  it  be  in  accordance  with  the  propri- 
eties which  //has  determined  upon  and  established,  v.  5.  "The 
world's  good  word  ! "  a  contemptuous  exclamation :  what's  the 
world's  good  word  worth?  "the  Institute  !  "  (the  reference  is,  of 
course,  to  the  French  Institute),  the  Institute  !  with  all  its  authori- 
tative, dictatorial  learnedness  !  v.  6.  Guizot  and  Montalembert  were 
both  members  of  the  Institute,  and  being  thus  in  the  same  boat, 
Guizot  conventionally  receives  Montalembert.  vv.  7  and  8.  These 
two  unconventional  Bohemian  lovers,  strolling  together  at  night, 
at  their  own  sweet  will,  see  down  the  court  along  which  they  are 
strolling,  three  lampions  flare,  which  indicate  some  big  place  or 
other  where  the  "  respectables  "  do  congregate ;  and  the  woman 
says  to  her  companion,  with  a  humorous  sarcasm,  "  Put  fonvard 
your  best  foot ! "  that  is,  we  must  be  very  correct  passing  along 
here  in  this  brilliant  light. 

By  the  two  lovers  are  evidently  meant  George  Sand  (the 
speaker)  and  Jules  Sandeau,  with  whom  she  lived  in  Paris,  after 
she  left  her  husband,  M.  Dudevant.  They  took  just  such  uncon- 
ventional night-strolls  together,  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD. 

An  Englishman,  in  some  foreign  land,  longs  for  England,  now 
that  April's  there,  with  its  peculiar  English  charms ;  and  then 
will  come  May,  with  the  white-throat  and  the  swallows,  and, 
most  delightful  of  all,  the  thrush,  with  its  rapturous  song  !  And 
the  buttercups,  far  brighter  than  the  gaudy  melon-flower  he  has 
before  him  ! 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  1 1 1 

HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA. 

A  paean,  inspired  by  the  sight,  from  the  sea,  of  Cape  Trafalgar 
and  Gibraltar,  both  objects  of  patriotic  pride  to  an  Englishman ; 
the  one  associated  with  the  naval  victory  gained  by  the  English 
fleet,  under  Nelson,  over  the  combined  French  and  Spanish  fleets  ; 
the  other,  England's  greatest  stronghold. 

The  first  four  verses  make  a  characteristic  Turner  picture. 

OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

The  speaker  in  the  monologue  is  looking  down  upon  Florence, 
in  the  valley  beneath,  from  a  villa  on  one  of  the  surrounding 
heights.  The  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised  more  than  startles 
him.  (For  an  explanation  of  this,  see  note  under  Stanza  2.) 
Although  the  poem  presents  a  general  survey  of  the  old  Florentine 
masters,  the  theme  of  the  poem  is  really  Giotto,  who  received  the 
affectionate  homage  of  the  Florentines,  in  his  own  day,  and  for 
whom  the  speaker  has  a  special  love.  The  poem  leads  up  to 
the  prophesied  restoration  of  Freedom  to  Florence,  the  return 
of  Art,  that  departed  with  her,  and  the  completion  of  the  Campa- 
nile, which  will  vindicate  Giotto  and  Florence  together,  and  crown 
the  restoration  of  freedom  to  the  city,  and  its  liberation  from  the 
hated  Austrian  rule. 

Mrs.  Browning's  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows  '  should  be  read  in 
connection  with  this  monologue.  The  strong  sympathy  which 
is  expressed  in  the  last  few  stanzas  of  the  monologue,  with  Italian 
liberty,  is  expressed  in  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows  '  at  a  white  heat. 

"  We  find,"  says  Professor  Dowden,  "  a  full  confession  of  Mr. 
Browning's  creed  with  respect  to  art  in  the  poem  entitled  '  Old 
Pictures  in  Florence.'  He  sees  the  ghosts  of  the  early  Christian 
masters,  whose  work  has  never  been  duly  appreciated,  standing 
sadly  by  each  mouldering  Italian  Fresco ;  and  when  an  imagined 
interlocutor  inquires  what  is  admirable  in  such  work  as  this, 
the  poet  answers  that  the  glory  of  Christian  art  lies  in  its  rejecting 
a  limited  perfection,  such  as  that  of  the  art  of  ancient  Greece,  the 


H2  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

subject  of  which  was  finite,  and  the  lesson  taught  by  which  was 
submission,  and  in  its  daring  to  be  incomplete,  and  faulty,  faulty 
because  its  subject  was  great  with  infinite  fears  and  hopes,  and 
because  it  must  needs  teach  man  not  to  submit  but  to  aspire." 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

[Florence,  15 — .] 

An  unknown  painter  reflects,  but  without  envy,  upon  the  praise 
which  has  been  bestowed  on  a  youthful  artist,  —  what  that 
praise  involves.  He  himself  was  conscious  of  all  the  power,  and 
more,  which  the  youth  has  shown ;  no  bar  stayed,  nor  fate  forbid, 
to  exercise  it,  nor  would  flesh  have  shrunk  from  seconding  his 
soul.  All  he  saw  he  could  have  put  upon  canvas ; 

"  Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 
Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue." 

And  when  he  thought  how  sweet  would  be  the  earthly  fame 
which  his  work  would  bring  him,  "the  thought  grew  frightful, 
'twas  so  wildly  dear ! "  But  a  vision  flashed  before  him  and 
changed  that  thought.  Along  with  the  loving,  trusting  ones  were 
cold  faces,  that  begun  to  press  on  him  and  judge  him.  Such 
as  these  would  buy  and  sell  his  pictures  for  garniture  and  house- 
hold-stuff. His  pictures,  so  sacred  to  his  soul,  would  be  the 
subject  of  their  prate,  "  This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate,  this  likes  me 
more,  and  this  affects  me  less  ! "  To  avoid  such  sacrilege,  he  has 
chosen  his  portion.  And  if  his  heart  sometimes  sinks,  while  at 
his  monotonous  work  of  painting  endless  cloisters  and  eternal 
aisles,  with  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint,  with  the  same 
cold,  calm,  beautiful  regard,  at  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  his 
heart.  Guarded  by  the  sanctuary's  gloom,  from  vain  tongues,  his 
pictures  may  die,  surely,  gently  die. 

"O  youth,  men  praise  so,  —  holds  their  praise  its  worth? 
Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of  earth?" 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  113 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

(Called  "The  Faultless  Painter.") 

In  this  monologue,  "  the  faultless  painter  "  (Andrea  Senza  Errori, 
as  he  was  surnamed  by  the  Italians)  is  the  speaker.  He  addresses 
his  worthless  wife,  Lucrezia,  upon  whom  he  weakly  dotes,  and  for 
whom  he  has  broken  faith  with  his  royal  patron,  Francis  I.  of 
France,  in  order  that  he  might  meet  her  demande  for  money,  to 
be  spent  upon  her  pleasures.  He  laments  that  he  has  fallen 
below  himself  as  an  artist,  that  he  has  not  realized  the  possibilities 
of  his  genius,  half  accusing,  from  the  better  side  of  his  nature, 
and  half  excusing,  in  his  uxoriousness,  the  woman  who  has  had 
no  sympathy  with  him  in  the  high  ideals  which,  with  her  support, 
he  might  have  realized,  and  thus  have  placed  himself  beside 
Angelo  and  Rafael.  "  Had  the  mouth  then  urged  '  God  and  the 
glory  !  never  care  for  gain.  The  present  by  the  future,  what  is 
that  ?  Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Angelo  —  Rafael  is  wait- 
ing. Up  to  God  all  three  ! '  I  might  have  done  it  for  you." 

In  his  'Comparative  Study  of  Tennyson  and  Browning,'1  Pro- 
fessor Edward  Dowden,  setting  forth  Browning's  doctrines  on  the 
subject  of  Art,  remarks  :  — 

"  The  true  glory  of  art  is,  that  in  its  creation  there  arise  desires  and 
aspirations  never  to  be  satisfied  on  earth,  but  generating  new  desires 
and  new  aspirations,  by  which  the  spirit  of  man  mounts  to  God  Him- 
self. The  artist  (Mr.  Browning  loves  to  insist  on  this  point)  who  can 
realize  in  marble  or  in  color,  or  in  music,  his  ideal,  has  thereby  missed 
tlie  highest  gain  of  art.  In  '  Pippa  Passes '  the  regeneration  of  the 
young  sculptor's  work  turns  on  his  finding  that  in  the  very  perfection 
which  he  had  attained  lies  ultimate  failure.  And  one  entire  poem, 
'  Andrea  del  Sarto,'  has  been  devoted  to  the  exposition  of  this  thought. 
Andrea  is  '  the  faultless  painter ' ;  no  line  of  his  drawing  ever  goes 

1  Originally  a  lecture,  delivered  in  1868,  and  published  in  '  Afternoon 
Lectures  on  Literature  and  Art'  (Dublin),  5th  series,  1869;  afterwards 
revised,  and  included  in  the  author's  '  Studies  in  Literature,  1789-1877.'  It 
is  one  of  the  best  criticisms  of  Browning's  poetry  that  have  yet  been  produced. 
Every  Browning  student  should  make  a  careful  study  of  it. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

astray ;  his  hand  expresses  adequately  and  accurately  all  that  his  mind 
conceives ;  but  for  this  very  reason,  precisely  because  he  is  '  the  fault- 
less painter,'  his  work  lacks  the  highest  qualities  of  art :  — 

"  '  A  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 
Or  what's  a  Heaven  for?  all  is  silver-grey, 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art  —  the  worse.' 

"  And  in  the  youthful  Raphael,  whose  technical  execution  fell  so  far 
below  his  own,  Andrea  recognizes  the  true  master :  — 

"  '  Vender's  a  work,  now,  of  that  famous  youth,'  etc. 

"In  Andrea  del  Sarto,"  says  Vasari,  "art  and  nature  combined  to 
show  all  that  may  be  done  in  painting,  where  design,  coloring,  and 
invention  unite  in  one  and  the  same  person.  Had  this  master  pos- 
sessed a  somewhat  bolder  and  more  elevated  mind,  had  he  been  as 
much  distinguished  for  higher  qualifications  as  he  was  for  genius  and 
depth  of  judgment  in  the  art  he  practised,  he  would,  beyond  all  doubt 
have  been  without  an  equal.  But  there  was  a  certain  timidity  of  mind, 
a  sort  of  diffidence  and  want  of  force  in  his  nature,  which  rendered  it 
impossible  that  those  evidences  of  ardor  and  animation  which  are 
proper  to  the  more  exalted  character,  should  ever  appear  in  him ; 
nor  did  he  at  any  time  display  one  particle  of  that  elevation  which, 
could  it  but  have  been  added  to  the  advantages  wherewith  he  was 
endowed,  would  have  rendered  him  a  truly  divine  painter :  wherefore 
the  works  of  Andrea  are  wanting  in  those  ornaments  of  grandeur, 
richness,  and  force,  which  appear  so  conspicuously  in  those  of  many- 
other  masters.  His  figures  are,  nevertheless,  well  drawn,  they  are 
entirely  free  from  errors,  and  perfect  in  all  their  proportions,  and  are 
for  the  most  part  simple  and  chaste:  the  expression  of  his  heads 
is  natural  and  graceful  in  women  and  children,  while  in  youths  and 
old  men  it  is  full  of  life  and  animation.  The  draperies  of  this  master 
are  beautiful  to  a  marvel,  and  the  nude  figures  are  admirably  executed, 
the  drawing  is  simple,  the  coloring  is  most  exquisite,  nay,  it  is  truly 
divine." 

Mr.  Ernest  Radford,  quoting  this  passage,  in  the  Browning 
Society's  '  Illustrations  to  Browning's  Poems,'  remarks  that 
"  nearly  the  whole  poem  of  '  Andrea  del  Sarto '  is  a  mere  trans- 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  j  T  5 

lation  into  the  Subjective  Mood  (if  I  may  so  say)  of  this  passage 
in  which  the  painter's  work  is  criticised  from  an  external  stand- 
point. .  .  . 

"  Recent  researches  into  Andrea's  life  throw  doubt  upon  a  good 
deal  that  Vasari  has  written  concerning  the  unhappiness  of  his 
marriage  and  the  manner  of  his  death.  And  the  biographer  him- 
self modifies,  in  his  second  edition,  the  account  he  had  given  of 
the  fair  Lucrezia.  Vasari,  it  should  be  said,  was  a  pupil  of  Andrea, 
and  therefore  must,  in  this  instance,  have  had  special  opportunities 
of  knowledge,  though  he  may,  on  the  same  account,  have  had 
some  special  animus  when  he  wrote.  For  the  purposes  of  his 
poem,  Browning  is  content  to  take  the  traditional  account  of  the 
matter,  which,  after  all,  seems  to  be  substantially  accurate.  The 
following  is  from  the  first  edition  :  — 

"  At  that  time  there  was  a  most  beautiful  girl  in  Via  di  San  Gallo, 
who  was  married  to  a  cap-maker,  and  who,  though  born  of  a  poor  and 
vicious  father,  carried  about  her  as  much  pride  and  haughtiness,  as 
beauty  and  fascination.  She  delighted  in  trapping  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  amongst  others  ensnared  the  unlucky  Andrea;  whose  immoderate 
love  for  her  soon  caused  him  to  neglect  the  studies  demanded  by  his 
art,  and  in  great  measure  to  discontinue  the  assistance  which  he  had 
given  to  his  parents. 

"Certain  pictures  of  Andrea's  which  had  been  painted  for  the  King 
of  France  were  received  with  much  favor,  and  an  invitation  to  Andrea 
soon  followed  their  delivery,  to  'go  and  paint  at  the  French  Court.1 
He  went  accordingly,  and  '  painted  proudly,1  as  Browning  relates,  and 
prospered  every  way.  But  one  day,  being  employed  on  the  figure  of  a 
St.  Jerome  doing  penance,  which  he  was  painting  for  the  mother  of 
the  King,  there  came  to  him  certain  letters  from  Florence ;  tbese  were 
written  him  by  his  wife ;  and  from  that  time  (whatever  may  have  been 
the  cause)  he  began  to  think  of  leaving  France.  He  asked  permission 
to  that  effect  from  the  French  King  accordingly,  saying  that  he  desired 
to  return  to  Florence,  but  that,  when  he  had  arranged  his  affairs  in  that 
city,  he  would  return  without  fail  to  his  Majesty ;  he  added,  that  when 
he  came  back,  his  wife  should  accompany  him,  to  the  end  that  he  might 
remain  in  France  the  more  quietly;  and  that  he  would  bring  with,  him 
pictures  and  sculptures  of  great  value.  The  King,  confiding  in  these 


TI6         ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

promises,  gave  him  money  for  the  purchase  of  those  pictures  and 
sculptures,  Andrea  taking  an  oath  on  the  gospels  to  return  within  the 
space  of  a  few  months,  and  that  done  he  departed  to  his  native  city. 

"  He  arrived  safely  in  Florence,  enjoying  the  society  of  his  beautiful 
wife,  and  that  of  his  friends,  with  the  sight  of  his  native  city,  during 
several  months ;  but  when  the  period  specified  by  the  King,  and  that 
at  which  he  ought  to  have  returned,  had  come  and  passed,  he  found 
himself  at  the  end,  not  only  of  his  own  money,  but,  what  with  build- 
ing "  (the  "  melancholy  little  house  they  built  to  be  so  gay  with  ") 
"  indulging  himself  with  various  pleasures,  and  doing  no  work,  of  that 
belonging  to  the  French  monarch  also,  the  whole  of  which  he  had  con- 
sumed. He  was,  nevertheless,  determined  to  return  to  France,  but  the 
prayers  and  tears  of  his  wife  had  more  power  than  his  own  necessities, 
or  the  faith  which  he  had  pledged  to  the  King." 

"  And  so  for  a  pretty  woman's  sake,  was  a  great  nature  degraded. 
And  out  of  sympathy  with  its  impulses,  broad,  and  deep,  and  ten- 
der as  only  the  greatest  can  show,  '  Andrea  del  Sarto,'  our  great, 
sad  poem,  was  written." 

Th.e  monologue  exhibits  great  perfection  of  finish.  Its  compo- 
sition was  occasioned,  as  Mr.  Furnivall  learned  from  the  poet  him- 
self (see  'Browning  Society's  Papers,'  Part  II.,  p.  161),  by  the 
portrait  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his  wife,  painted  by  himself,  and 
now  in  the  Pitti  Palace,  in  Florence.  Mr.  Browning's  friend,  and 
his  wife's  friend,  Mr.  John  Kenyon  (the  same  to  whom  Mrs. 
Browning  dedicated  'Aurora  Leigh'),  had  asked  the  poet  to  buy 
him  a  copy  of  Andrea  del  Sarto's  picture.  None  could  be  got, 
and  so  Mr.  Browning  put  into  a  poem  what  the  picture  had  said 
to  himself,  and  sent  it  to  Mr.  Kenyon.  It  was  certainly  a  worthy 

substitute. 

FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 

The  Italian  artist,  Lippi,  is  the  speaker.  Lippi  was  one  of  the 
representatives  of  the  protest  made  in  the  fifteenth  century  against 
the  conventional  spiritualization  in  the  art  of  his  time.  In  the 
monologue  he  gives  expression  to  his  faith  in  the  real,  in  the  abso- 
lute spiritual  significance  of  the  lineaments  of  the  human  face,  and 
in  the  forms  of  nature.  The  circumstances  under  which  this  faith 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  \\j 

is  expressed,  are  somewhat  droll.  Lippi  was  a  wild  fellow  and 
given  to  excesses  of  various  kinds.  When  a  boy  he  took  refuge 
against  starvation  in  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites,  in  Florence, 
and  became  a  monk ;  but  he  proved  unfaithful  to  his  religious 
vows,  and,  impelled  by  his  genius  for  art,  made  his  escape  from 
the  convent,  having  first  profited  by  the  work  of  Masaccio,  and 
devoted  himself  to  painting.  After  many  romantic  experiences, 
and  having  risen  to  distinction  in  his  art,  he  returned  to  Florence 
and  became  known  to  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  in  whose  employ  he  is 
at  the  time  he  is  presented  to  us  in  the  monologue.  It  appears 
he  had  been  shut  up  by  his  patron,  for  three  weeks,  in  order  to  be 
kept  at  work,  "  a-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints  and 
saints  again.  I  could  not  paint  all  night  —  Ouf !  I  leaned  out  of 
window  for  fresh  air.  There  came  a  hurry  of  feet,  and  little  feet, 
a  sweep  of  lutestrings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song,"  —  etc.  In  his 
eagerness  to  join  in  the  fun,  he  tears  into  shreds  curtain,  and  coun- 
terpane, and  coverlet,  makes  a  rope,  descends,  and  comes  up  with 
the  fun  hard  by  Saint  Laurence,  hail  fellow,  well  met.  On  his 
way  back  toward  daybreak,  he  is  throttled  by  the  police,  and  it  is 
to  them  the  monologue  is  addressed.  He  ingratiates  himself  with 
them  by  telling  his  history,  and  by  his  talk  on  art,  and  a  most  in- 
teresting and  deeply  significant  talk  it  is,  the  gist  of  it  being  well 
expressed  in  a  passage  of  Mrs.  Browning's  '  Aurora  Leigh,'  "  paint 
a  body  well,  you  paint  a  soul  by  implication,  like  the  grand  first  Mas- 
ter. .  .  .  Without  the  spiritual,  observe,  the  natural's  impossible ; 
—  no  form,  no  motion  !  Without  sensuous,  spiritual  is  inapprecia- 
ble ;  —  no  beauty  or  power  !  And  in  this  twofold  sphere  the  two- 
fold man  (and  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a  man)  holds  firmly  by 
the  natural,  to  reach  the  spiritual  beyond  it,  —  fixes  still  the  type 
with  mortal  vision,  to  pierce  through,  with  eyes  immortal,  to  the 
antetype,  some  call  the  ideal,  —  better  called  the  real,  and  certain 
to  be  called  so  presently  when  things  shall  have  their  names." 

Browning  has  closely  followed,  in  the  monologue,  the  art-histo- 
rian, Giorgio  Vasari,  as  the  following  extracts  will  show  (the  trans- 
lation is  that  of  Mrs.  Jonathan  Foster,  in  the  Bohn  Library)  :  — 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

"  The  Carmelite  monk,  Fra  Filippo  di  Tommaso  Lippi 
was  born  at  Florence  in  a  bye-street  called  Ardiglione,  under  the  Canto 
alia  Cuculia,  and  behind  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites.  By  the  death 
of  his  father  he  was  left  a  friendless  orphan  at  the  age  of  two  years,  his 
mother  having  also  died  shortly  after  his  birth.  The  child  was  for 
some  time  under  the  care  of  a  certain  Mona  Lapaccia,  his  aunt,  the 
sister  of  his  father,  who  brought  him  up  with  very  great  difficulty  till 
he  had  attained  his  eighth  year,  when,  being  no  longer  able  to  support 
the  burden  of  his  maintenance,  she  placed  him  in  the  above-named 
convent  of  the  Carmelites.  Here,  in  proportion  as  he  showed  himself 
dexterous  and  ingenious  in  all  works  performed  by  hand,  did  he  mani- 
fest the  utmost  dulness  and  incapacity  in  letters,  to  which  he  would 
never  apply  himself,  nor  would  he  take  any  pleasure  in  learning  of  any 
kind.  The  boy  continued  to  be  called  by  his  worldly  name  of 
Filippo,2  and  being  placed  with  others,  who  like  himself  were  in  the 
house  of  the  novices,  under  the  care  of  the  master,  to  the  end  that  the 
latter  might  see  what  could  be  done  with  him ;  in  place  of  studying,  he 
never  did  anything  but  daub  his  own  books,  and  those  of  the  other 
boys,  with  caricatures,  whereupon  the  prior  determined  to  give  him  all 
means  and  every  opportunity  for  learning  to  draw.  The  chapel  of  the 
Carmine  had  then  been  newly  painted  by  Masaccio,  and  this  being 
exceedingly  beautiful,  pleased  Fra  Filippo  greatly,  wherefore  he  fre- 
quented it  daily  for  his  recreation,  and,  continually  practising  there,  in 
company  with  many  other  youths,  who  were  constantly  drawing  in  that 
place,  he  surpassed  all  the  others  by  very  much  in  dexterity  and 
knowledge.  .  .  .  Proceeding  thus,  and  improving  from  day  to  day,  he 
had  so  closely  followed  the  manner  of  Masaccio,  and  his  works  dis- 
played so  much  similarity  to  those  of  the  latter,  that  many  affirmed  the 
spirit  of  Masaccio  to  have  entered  the  body  of  Fra  Filippo.  .  .  . 

"It  is  said  that  Fra  Filippo  was  much  addicted  to  the  pleasures  of 
sense,  insomuch  that  he  would  give  all  he  possessed  to  secure  the  gratifi- 
cation of  whatever  inclination  might  at  the  moment  be  predominant ;  .  .  . 
It  was  known  that,  while  occupied  in  the  pursuit  of  his  pleasures,  the 

1The  date  of  birth  differs  in  the  biographies,  it  being  variously  given  as 
1400,  1406,  1410,  and  1412.  But  the  latter  appears  to  be  the  one  generally 
accepted. 

2  It  was  customary,  on  entering  a  convent,  to  change  the  baptismal  name 
for  some  other. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  II9 

works  undertaken  by  him  received  little  or  none  of  his  attention ;  for 
which  reason  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  wishing  him  to  execute  a  work  in  his 
own  palace,  shut  him  up,  that  he  might  not  waste  his  time  in  running 
about ;  but  having  endured  this  confinement  for  two  days,  he  then 
made  roges  with  the  sheets  of  his  bed,  which  he  cut  to  pieces  for  that 
purpose,  and  so  having  let  himself  down  from  a  window,  escaped,  and 
for  several  days  gave  himself  up  to  his  amusements.  When  Cosimo 
found  that  the  painter  had  disappeared,  he  caused  him  to  be  sought, 
and  Fra  Filippo  at  last  returned  to  his  work,  but  from  that  time  for- 
ward Cosimo  gave  him  liberty  to  go  in  and  out  at  his  pleasure,  repent- 
ing greatly  of  having  previously  shut  him  up,  when  he  considered  the 
danger  that  Fra  Filippo  had  incurred  by  his  folly  in  descending  from 
the  window ;  and  ever  afterwards  laboring  to  keep  him  to  his  work  by 
kindness  only,  he  was  by  this  means  much  more  promptly  and  effectu- 
ally served  by  the  painter,  and  was  wont  to  say  that  the  excellencies  of 
rare  genius  were  as  forms  of  light  and  not  beasts  of  burden." 

A  FACE. 

The  speaker  imagines  the  head  of  a  beautiful  girl  he  knows, 
"  painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold,  such  as  the  Tuscan's 
early  art  prefers,"  and  details  the  picture  as  he  would  have  it. 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  AT  ST.  PRAXED'S  CHURCH.J 
[ROME,  15—.] 

The  dying  Bishop  pleads  with  his  natural  sons  that  they  give 
him  the  sumptuous  tomb  they  stand  pledged  to,  —  such  a  tomb  as 
will  excite  the  envy  of  his  old  enemy  Gandolf,  who  cheated  him 
out  of  a  favorite  niche  in  St.  Praxed's  Church,  by  dying  before 
him,  and  securing  it  for  his  tomb. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  suppose  that  the  natural  sons  are  present. 
His,  perhaps,  delirious  mind  is  occupied  with  the  precious  marbles 

1  First  published  in  'Hood's  Magazine,'  March,  1845,  No.  III.,  vol.  Hi., 
pp.  237-239,  under  the  title  'The  Tomb  at  St.  Praxed's  (Rome,  15 — ).' 

"  This  poem  and  '  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess '  were  sent  by  Browning  to 

help  make  up  the  numbers  of  the  magazine  while  Hood  lay  dying."  —  Fl'KM- 
v.M.i.'s  Hil'li'-^rapky  of  Robert  Browning,  p.  48. 


120  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

and  stones  and  other  luxuries  he  has  loved  so  much,  and  with  his 
old  rival  and  enemy,  Gandolf. 

John  Ruskin,  in  his  '  Modern  Painters '  (Vol.  IV.,  chap.  XX., 
§  32),  remarks  :  — 

"Robert  Browning  is  unerring  in  every  sentence  he  writes  of  the 
Middle  Ages ;  always  vital,  right,  and  profound ;  so  that  in  the  matter 
of  art,  .  .  .  there  is  hardly  a  principle  connected  with  the  mediaeval 
temper,  that  he  has  not  struck  upon  in  those  seemingly  careless  and 
too  rugged  rhymes  of  his.  There  is  a  curious  instance,  by  the  way,  in 
a  short  poem 1  referring  to  this  very  subject  of  tomb  and  image  sculp- 
ture ;  all  illustrating  just  one  of  those  phases  of  local  human  character 
which,  though  belonging  to  Shakespeare's  own  age,  he  [Shakespeare] 
never  noticed,  because  it  was  specially  Italian  and  un-English;  con- 
nected also  closely  with  the  influence  of  mountains  on  the  heart,  and 
therefore  with  our  immediate  inquiries.2  I  mean  the  kind  of  admira- 
tion with  which  a  southern  artist  regarded  the  stone  he  worked  in ;  and 
the  pride  which  populace  or  priest  took  in  the  possession  of  precious 
mountain  substance,  worked  into  the  pavements  of  their  cathedrals, 
and  the  shafts  of  their  tombs. 

"  Observe,  Shakespeare,  in  the  midst  of  architecture  and  tombs  of 
wood,  or  freestone,  or  brass,  naturally  thinks  of  gold  as  the  best  en- 
riching and  ennobling  substance  for  them ;  in  the  midst  also  of  the 
fever  of  the  Renaissance  he  writes,  as  every  one  else  did,  in  praise  of 
precisely  the  most  vicious  master  of  that  school  —  Giulio  Romano ; 8 
but  the  modern  poet,  living  much  in  Italy,  and  quit  of  the  Renaissance 
influence,  is  able  fully  to  enter  into  the  Italian  feeling,  and  to  see  the 
evil  of  the  Renaissance  tendency,  not  because  he  is  greater  than 
Shakespeare,  but  because  he  is  in  another  element,  and  has  seen  other 
things.  .  .  . 

"  I  know  no  other  piece  of  modern  English,  prose  or  poetry,  in  which 
there  is  so  much  told,  as  in  these  lines  ['  The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  '], 
of  the  Renaissance  spirit,  —  its  worldliness,  inconsistency,  pride,  hy- 
pocrisy, ignorance  of  itself,  love  of  art,  of  luxury,  and  of  good  Latin. 

1  '  The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  in  St.  Praxed's  Church.' 

2  '  The  Mountain  Glory,'  the  subject  of  the  chapter  from  which  this  is 
taken. 

* «  Winter's  Tale,'  V.  2.  106. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.         121 

It  is  nearly  all  that  I  said  of  the  Central  Renaissance  in  thirty  pages  of 
the  'Stones  of  Venice'  put  into  as  many  lines,  Browning's  being  also 
the  antecedent  work.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  this  kind  of  concentrated 
writing  needs  so  much  solution  before  the  reader  can  fairly  get  ,the 
good  of  it,  that  people's  patience  fails  them,  and  they  give  the  thing 
up  as  insoluble  ;  though,  truly,  it  ought  to  be  to  the  current  of  common 
thought  like  Saladin's  talisman,  dipped  in  clear  water,  not  soluble 
altogether,  but  making  the  element  medicinable." 

Professor  Dowden,  in  regard  to  Mr.  Browning's  doctrines  on 
the  subject  of  art,  remarks  :  — 

"  It  is  always  in  an  unfavorable  light  that  he  depicts  the  virtuoso  or 
collector,  who,  conscious  of  no  unsatisfied  aspirations  such  as  those 
which  make  the  artist's  joy  and  sorrow,  rests  in  the  visible  products  of 
art,  and  looks  up  to  nothing  above  or  beyond  them.  .  .  .  The  unbe- 
lieving and  worldly  spirit  of  the  dying  Bishop,  who  orders  his  tomb  at 
St.  Praxed's,  his  sense  of  the  vanity  of  the  world  simply  because  the 
world  is  passing  out  of  his  reach,  the  regretful  memory  of  the  pleasures 
of  his  youth,  the  envious  spite  towards  Gandolf,  who  robbed  him  of 
the  best  position  for  a  tomb,  and  the  dread  lest  his  reputed  sons  should 
play  him  false  and  fail  to  carry  out  his  designs,  are  united  with  a  perfect 
appreciation  of  Renaissance  art,  and  a  luxurious  satisfaction,  which 
even  a  death-bed  cannot  destroy,  in  the  splendor  of  voluptuous  form 
and  color.  The  great  lump  of  lapis  lazuli, 

"  '  Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast,' 

must  poise  between  his  sculptured  knees ;  the  black  basalt  must  con- 
trast with  the  bas-relief  in  bronze  below :  — 

" '  St.  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off ; ' 

the  inscription  must  be  '  choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every 
word.' " 

A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S. 

The  speaker  is  listening  to  a  Toccata  of  Galuppi's,  and  the 
music  tells  him  of  how  they  lived  once  in  Venice,  where  the  mer- 


122         ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

chants  were  the  kings.     He  was  never  out  of  England,  yet  it's  as 
if  he  saw  it  all,  through  what  is  addressed  to  the  ear  alone. 

But  the  music  does  more  than  reflect  the  life  of  mirth  and  folly 
which  was  led  in  the  gay  and  voluptuous  city.  It  has  an  under- 
tone of  sadness ;  its  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  its  sixths  dimin- 
ished, sigh  on  sigh,  tell  the  votaries  of  pleasure  something;  its 
suspensions,  its  solutions,  its  commiserating  sevenths,  awaken  in 
them  the  question  of  their  hold  on  life.  That  question  the  music 
answers. 

ABT  VOGLER. 

(After  he  has  been  extemporizing  upon  the  musical  instrument   of   his   in- 
vention.) 

The  Abb£  Georg  Joseph  Vogler  was  born  at  Wiirzburg  (Ba- 
varia), June  15,  1749;  appointed  Kappelmeister  to  the  King  of 
Sweden,  in  1786.  While  in  this  capacity,  the  "musical  instrument 
of  his  invention,"  called  the  Orchestrion,  was  constructed ; x  went 
to  London  with  his  organ,  in  1 790,  and  gave  a  series  of  successful 
concerts,  realizing  some  ^£1200,  and  making  a  name  as  an  organ- 
ist ;  commissioned  to  reconstruct  the  organ  of  the  Pantheon  on 
the  plan  of  his  Orchestrion ;  and  later,  received  like  commissions 
at  Copenhagen  and  at  Neu  Ruppin  in  Prussia ;  founded  a  school 
of  music  at  Copenhagen,  and  published  there  many  works ;  in 
1807  was  appointed  by  the  Grand  Duke,  Louis  I.,  Kappelmeister 
at  Darmstadt ;  founded  there  his  last  school,  two  of  his  pupils 
being  Weber  and  Meyerbeer ;  died  in  1814.  Browning  presents 
Vogler  as  a  great  extemporizer,  in  which  character  he  appears  to 
have  been  the  most  famous.  For  a  further  account,  see  Miss 
Eleanor  Marx's  paper  on  the  Abb£  Vogler,  from  which  the  above 
facts  have  been  derived  ('Browning  Soc.  Papers,'  Pt.  III.,  pp. 

1  "  This  was  a  very  compact  organ,  in  which  four  key-boards  of  five  oc- 
taves each,  and  a  pedal  board  of  thirty-six  keys,  with  swell  complete,  were 
packed  into  a  cube  of  nine  feet.  See  Fdtis's  '  Biographic  Universelle  des 
Musiciens.'  —  G.  GROVE."  Note  to  Miss  Marx's  Art.  on  Vogler, 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  123 

339-343) .    Her  authorities  are  Fe'tis's  '  Biogr.  Univ.  des  Musiciens ' 
and  Nisard's  'Vie  cle  l'Abb£  Vogler.' 

Mrs.  Turnbull,  in  her  paper  on  '  Abt  Vogler  '  ('  Browning  Soc. 
Papers,'  Ft.  IV.,  pp.  469-476),  has  so  well  traced  the  argument 
of  the  monologue,  that  I  cannot  do  better  than  quote  the  portion 
of  her  paper  in  which  she  presents  it :  — 

"  Abt  Vogler  has  been  extemporizing  on  his  instrument,  pouring  out 
through  it  all  his  feelings  of  yearning  and  aspiration  ;  and  now,  waking 
from  his  state  of  absorption,  excited,  and  trembling  with  excess  of  emo- 
tion, he  breaks  out  into  the  wish,  '  Would  it  might  tarry  ! '  In  verses 
[stanzas]  one  and  two  he  compares  the  music  he  has  made  to  a  palace, 
which  Solomon  (as  legends  of  the  Koran  relate)  summoned  all  crea- 
tures, by  the  magic  name  on  his  ring,  to  raise  for  the  princess  he  loved ; 
so  all  the  keys,  joyfully  submitting  to  the  magic  power  of  the  master, 
combine  to  aid  him,  the  low  notes  rushing  in  like  demons  to  give  him 
the  base  on  which  to  build  his  airy  structure  ;  the  high  notes  like  angels 
throwing  decoration  of  carving  and  tracery  on  pinnacle  and  flying 
buttress,  till  in  verse  three  its  outline,  rising  ever  higher  and  higher, 
shows  in  the  clouds  like  St.  Peter's  dome,  illuminated  and  towering 
into  the  vasty  sky ;  and  it  seems  as  if  his  soul,  upborne  on  the  surging 
waves  of  music,  had  reached  its  highest  elevation.  But  no.  Influences 
from  without,  inexplicable,  unexpected,  join  to  enhance  his  own  at- 
tempts ;  the  heavens  themselves  seem  to  bow  down  and  to  flash  forth 
inconceivable  splendors  on  his  amazed  spirit,  till  the  limitations  of 
time  and  space  are  gone  —  'there  is  no  more  near-nor  far.' 

"...  In  this  strange  fusion  of  near  and  far,  of  heaven  and  earth, 
presences  hover,  spirits  of  those  long  dead  or  of  those  yet  to  be,  lured 
by  the  power  of  music  to  return  to  life,  or  to  begin  it.  Figures  are 
dimly  descried  in  the  fervor  and  passion  of  music,  even  as  of  old  in 
the  glare  and  glow  of  the  fiery  furnace. 

"Verses  four  and  five  are  a  bold  attempt  to  describe  the  indescriba- 
ble, to  shadow  forth  that  strange  state  of  clairvoyance  when  the  soul 
shakes  itself  free  from  all  external  impressions,  which  Vogel  tells  us 
was  the  case  with  Schubert,  and  which  is  true  of  all  great  composers  — 
'  whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  I  cannot  say.' 

"In  the  sixth  verse  we  come  to  a  comparison  of  music  with  the  other 
arts.  Poetry,  painting,  and  sculpture  deal  with  actual  form,  and  the 
tangible  realities  of  life.  They  are  subject  to  laws,  and  we  know  how 


124  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

they  are  produced ;  can  watch  the  painting  grow  beneath  the  artist's 
touches,  or  the  poem  take  shape  line  by  line. 

"  True  it  needs  the  soul  of  the  artist  to  combine  and  to  interfuse  the 
elements  with  which  he  wishes  to  create  any  true  work  of  art,  but 
music  is  almost  entirely  independent  of  earthly  element  in  which  to 
clothe  and  embody  itself.  It  does  not  allow  of  a  realistic  conception, 
but  without  intermediate  means  is  in  a  direct  line  from  God,  and  ena- 
bles us  to  comprehend  that  Power  which  created  all  things  out  of 
nothing,  with  whom  to  will  and  to  do  are  one  and  the  same. 

"  Schopenhauer  says,  '  There  is  no  sound  in  Nature  fit  to  serve  the 
musician  as  a  model,  or  to  supply  him  with  more  than  an  occasional 
suggestion  for  his  sublime  purpose.  He  approaches  the  original 
sources  of  existence  more  closely  than  all  other  artists,  nay,  even 
than  Nature  herself.' 

"  Heine  has  also  noticed  this  element  of  miracle,  which  coincides 
exactly  with  Browning's  view  expressed  in  the  lines :  — 

"  '  Here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them,  and,  lo,  they  are ! ' 

Now,  these  seven  verses  contain  the  music  of  the  poem ;  in  the  re- 
maining ones  we  pass  to  Browning's  Platonic  philosophy. 

"  In  the  eighth  verse  a  sad  thought  of  the  banished  music  obtrudes  — 
'  never  to  be  again.'  So  wrapt  was  he  in  the  emotions  evoked,  he  had 
no  time  to  think  of  what  tones  called  them  up,  and  now  all  is  past  and 
gone.  His  magic  palace,  unlike  that  of  Solomon,  has  '  melted  into 
air,  into  thin  air,'  and,  '  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision,'  only  the 
memory  of  it  is  left.  .  .  .  And,  depressed  by  this  saddest  of  human 
experiences,  ...  he  turns  away  impatient  from  the  promise  of  more 
and  better,  to  demand  from  God  the  same  —  the  very  same.  Browning 
with  magnificent  assurance  answers,  '  yes,  you  shall  have  the  same.' 

"  '  Fool !  all  that  is  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall.' 

"  '  Ay,  what  was,  shall  be.' 

"...  the  ineffable  Name  which  built  the  palace  of  King  Solomon, 
which  builds  houses  not  made  with  hands  —  houses  of  flesh  which 
souls  inhabit,  craving  for  a  heart  and  a  love  to  fill  them,  can  and  will 
satisfy  their  longings ;  .  .  .  I  know  no  other  words  in  the  English  lan- 
guage which  compresses  into  small  compass  such  a  body  of  high  and 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  I25 

inclusive  thought  as  verse  nine.  (i)  God  the  sole  changeless,  to 
whom  we  turn  with  passionate  desire  as  the  one  abiding-place,  as  we 
find  how  all  things  suffer  loss  and  change,  ourselves,  alas !  the  greatest. 
(2)  His  power  and  love  able  and  willing  to  satisfy  the  hearts  of  His 
creatures  —  the  thought  expatiated  on  by  St.  Augustine  and  George 
Herbert  here  crystallized  in  one  line :  — '  Doubt  that  Thy  power  can  fill 
the  heart  that  Thy  power  expands?'  (3)  Then  the  magnificent  decla- 
ration, '  There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good '  —  the  eternal  nature  of 
goodness,  while  its  opposite  evil  ...  is  a  non-essential  which  shall 
one  day  pass  away  entirely,  and  be  swallowed  up  of  good.  .  .  . 

"  Now  follows  an  announcement,  as  by  tongue  of  prophet  or  seer, 
that  we  shall  at  last  find  all  our  ideals  complete  in  the  mind  of  God, 
not  put  forth  timorously,  but  with  triumphant  knowledge  —  knowledge 
gained  by  music  whose  creative  power  has  for  the  moment  revealed  to 
us  the  permanent  existence  of  these  ideals. 

"  The  sorrow  and  pain  and  failure  which  we  are  all  called  upon  to 
suffer  here,  .  .  .  are  seen  to  be  proofs  and  evidences  of  this  great  belief. 
Without  the  discords  how  should  we  learn  to  prize  the  harmony? 

"  Carried  on  the  wings  of  music  and  high  thought,  we  have  ascended 
one  of  those  Delectable  mountains  —  Pisgah-peaks  from  which 

" '  Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither  ;' 

and  whence  we  can  descry,  however  faintly,  the  land  that  is  very  far  off 
to  which  we  travel,  and  we  would  fain  linger,  nay,  abide,  on  the  mount, 
building  there  our  tabernacles. 

"  But  it  cannot  be.  That  fine  air  is  difficult  to  breathe  long,  and  life, 
with  its  rounds  of  custom  and  duty,  recalls  us.  So  we  descend  with 
the  musician,  through  varying  harmonies  and  sliding  modulations  .  .  . 
deadening  the  poignancy  of  the  minor  third  in  the  more  satisfying 
reassuring  chord  of  the  dominant  ninth,  which  again  finds  its  rest  on 
the  key-note  —  C  major —  the  common  chord,  so  sober  and  uninterest- 
ing that  it  well  symbolizes  the  common  level  of  life,  the  prosaic  key- 
note to  which  unfortunately  most  of  our  lives  are  set. 

"We  return,  however,  strengthened  and  refreshed,  braced  to  endure 
the  wrongs  which  we  know  shall  be  one  day  righted,  to  acquiesce  in 
the  limited  and  imperfect  conditions  of  earth,  which  we  know  shall  be 
merged  at  last  in  heaven's  perfect  round,  and  to  accept  with  patience 
the  renunciation  demanded  of  us  here,  knowing 

"  '  All  we  have  willed,  or  hoped,  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist.'  " 


126  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

In  his  '  Introductory  Address  to  the  Browning  Society,'  the 
Rev.  J.  Kirkman,  of  Queen's  College,  Cambridge,  says  of  '  Abt 
Volger ' :  — 

"  The  spiritual  transcendentalism  of  music,  the  inscrutable  relation 
between  the  seen  and  the  eternal,  of  which  music  alone  unlocks  the 
gate  by  inarticulate  expression,  has  never  had  an  articulate  utterance 
from  a  poet  before  '  Abt  Vogler.'  This  is  of  a  higher  order  of  compo- 
sition, quite  nobler,  than  the  merely  fretful  rebellion  against  the  earthly 
condition  imposed  here  below  upon  heavenly  things,  seen  in  '  Master 
Hughes1  [of  Saxe-Gotha].  In  that  and  other  places,  I  am  not  sure 
that  persons  of  musical  attainment,  as  distinguished  from  musical  soul 
and  sympathy,  do  not  rather  find  a  professional  gratification  at  the 
technicalities  .  .  .  than  get  conducted  to  '  the  law  within  the  law.'  But  in 
'Abt  Vogler,'  the  understanding  is  spell-bound,  and  carried  on  the 
wings  of  the  emotions,  as  Ganymede  in  the  soft  down  of  the  eagle, 
into  the  world  of  spirit.  .  .  . 

"  The  beautiful  utterances  of  Richter  alone  approach  to  the  value  of 
Browning's  on  music.  Well  does  he  deserve  remembrance  for  the 
remark,  that  '  Music  is  the  only  language  incapable  of  expressing  any- 
thing impure,'  and  for  many  others.  They  all  [the  poets  quoted  in  the 
passage  omitted  above],  comparatively,  speak  from  outside;  Browning 
speaks  from  inside,  as  if  an  angel  came  to  give  all  the  hints  we  could 

receive, 

" '  Of  that  imperial  palace  whence  we  came.' 

He  speaks  of  music  as  Dante  does  of  Heaven,  Hell,  and  Purgatory, 
because  he  has  been  there.  Even  the  musical  Milton,  whose  best  line 
is,  '  In  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,'  whose  best  special  treatment 
of  music  is  in  the  occasional  poem,  '  At  a  solemn  music,'  has  given  us 
nothing  of  the  nature  of '  Abt  Vogler.'  It  should  be  perfectly  learnt 
by  heart;  and  it  will  be  ever  whispering  analogies  to  the  soul  in  daily 
life.  Because,  of  course,  the  mystery  of  life  and  the  mystery  of  music 
make  one  of  the  most  fundamental  transcendental  harmonies  breathed 
into  our  being." 

'TOUCH  HIM  NE'ER  so  LIGHTLY,'  ETC. 

In  the  first  stanza  some  one  describes  admiringly  a  writer  of 
mushroom  poems.  In  the  second  stanza  another  gives  the 
genesis  of  a  poem  which  becomes  a  nation's  heritage. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


MEMORABILIA. 


127 


The  speaker  is  one  to  whom  Shelley  is  an  almost  ideal  being. 
He  can  hardly  think  of  him  as  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood.  He 
meets  some  one  who  has  actually  seen  him  and  talked  with  him  ; 
and  it's  all  so  strange  to  him,  and  he  expresses  so  much  surprise 
at  it,  that  it  moves  the  laughter  of  the  other,  and  he  breaks  off 
and  speaks  of  crossing  a  moor.  Only  a  hand's  breadth  of  it  shines 
alone  'mid  the  blank  miles  round  about ;  for  there  he  picked  up, 
and  put  inside  his  breast,  a  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather. 
He  forgets  the  rest.  There  is,  in  fact,  nothing  more  for  him 
to  remember.  The  eagle-feather  causes  an  isolated  flash  of 
association  with  the  poet  of  the  atmosphere,  the  winds,  and  the 

clouds, 

"  The  meteoric  poet  of  air  and  sea." 

HOW   IT   STRIKES   A    CONTEMPORARY. 

The  speaker,  a  Spaniard,  it  must  be  supposed,  describes  to  his 
companion  the  only  poet  he  knew  in  his  life,  who  roamed  along 
the  promenades  and  through  the  by-streets  and  lanes  and  alleys  of 
Valladolid,  an  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels.  He  ap- 
peared interested  in  whatever  he  looked  on,  and  his  looks  went 
everywhere,  taking  in  the  cobbler  at  his  trade,  the  man  slicing 
lemons  into  drink,  the  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys  turning 
its  winch ;  books  on  stalls,  strung-up  fly-leaf  ballads,  posters  by 
the  wall ; 

"  '  If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw ; 
If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note.' 
Yet  stared  at  nobody, — you  stared  at  him, 
And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than  surprise, 
He  seemed  to  know  you,  and  expect  as  much." 

Popular  imagination  is  active  as  to  who  and  what  he  is ;  perhaps 
a  spy,  or  it  may  be  "  a  recording  chief-inquisitor,  the  town's  true 
master  if  the  town  but  knew,"  who  by  letters  keeps  "  our  Lord 
the  King  "  well  informed  "  of  all  thought,  said,  and  acted  "  ;  but 


128  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

of  the  King's  approval  of  these  letters  there  has  been  no  evidence 
of  any  kind. 

The  speaker  found  no  truth  in  one  of  the  popular  reports, 
namely,  that  this  strange  man  lived  in  great  luxury  and  splendor. 
On  the  contrary,  he  lived  in  the  plainest,  simplest  manner ;  played 
a  game  of  cribbage  with  his  maid,  in  the  evening,  and,  when  the 
church  clock  struck  ten,  went  straight  off  to  bed.  It  seems  that 
while  the  belief  of  the  people  was,  that  this  man  kept  up  a  corre- 
spondence with  their  earthly  Lord,  the  King,  noting  all  that  went 
on,  the  speaker,  in  the  monologue  is  aware  that  it  was  the  Heav- 
enly King  with  whom  he  corresponded.  In  the  last  paragraph  of 
his  monologue  he  expresses  the  wish  that  he  might  have  looked 
in,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid,  when  this  man  came  to.  die,  and 
seen,  ministering  to  him,  the  heavenly  attendants,  — 

«  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret  sides, 
And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed 
With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 
Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in-chief, 
Thro1  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  death, 
Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 

$  *  *  #  *  * 

And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once  ! " 

He  then  adds  that  there  was 

"  '  No  further  show  or  need  of  that  old  coat, 

You  are  sure,  for  one  thing !     Bless  us,  all  the  while 
How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  1 1 "' 

we  who  are  so  inferior  to  that  divine  poet ;  but, 

"  A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that." 

"  TRANSCENDENTALISM." 

A  poem  in  twelve  books. 

This  monologue  is  addressed  by  a  poet  to  a  brother-poet  whom 
he  finds  fault  with  for  speaking  naked  thoughts  instead  of  draping 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS.  129 

them  in  sights  and  sounds.  If  boys  want  images  and  melody, 
grown  men,  you  think,  want  abstract  thought.  Far  from  it.  The 
objects  which  throng  our  youth,  we  see  and  hear,  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course.  But  what  of  it,  if  you  could  tell  what  they  mean? 
The  German  Boehme,  with  his  affinities  for  the  abstract,  never 
cared  for  plants  until,  one  day,  he  noticed  they  could  speak ;  that 
the  daisy  colloquized  with  the  cowslip  on  such  themes  !  themes 
found  extant  in  Jacob's  prose.  But  when  life's  summer  passes 
while  reading  prose  in  that. tough  book  he  wrote,  getting  some 
sense  or  other  out  of  it,  who  helps,  then,  to  repair  our  loss? 
Another  Boehme,  say  you,  with  a  tougher  book  and  subtler  ab- 
stract meanings  of  what  roses  say?  Or  some  stout  Mage  like 
John  of  Halberstadt,  who  made  things  Boehme  wrote  thoughts 
about  ?  Ah,  John's  the  man  for  us  !  who  instead  of  giving  us  the 
wise  talk  of  roses,  scatters  all  around  us  the  roses  themselves, 
pouring  heaven  into  this  shut  house  of  life.  So  come,  the  harp 
back  to  your  heart  again,  instead  of  speaking  dry  words  across  its 
strings.  Your  own  boy-face  bent  over  the  finer  chords,  and  follow- 
ing the  cherub  at  the  top  that  points  to  God  with  his  paired  half- 
moon  wings,  is  a  far  better  poem  than  your  poem  with  all  its  naked 
thoughts. 

APPARENT  FAILURE. 

The  poet,  it  appears,  speaks  here  in  his  own  person.  Saunter- 
ing about  Paris,  he  comes  upon  the  Doric  little  Morgue,  the  dead- 
house,  where  they  show  their  drowned.  He  enters,  and  sees 
through  the  screen  of  glass,  the  bodies  of  three  men  who  com- 
mitted suicide,  the  day  before,  by  drowning  themselves  in  the 
Seine. 

In  the  last  stanza,  he  gives  expression  to  his  hopeful  philosophy, 
which  recognizes  "  some  soul  of  goodness,  in  things  evil  "  ; '  which 
sees  in  human  nature,  "  potentiality  of  final  deliverance  from  the 
evil  in  it,  given  only  time  enough  for  the  work."  In  this  age  of  pro- 
fessed and  often,  no  doubt,  affected,  agnosticism  and  pessimism, 

1  '  Henry  V.,' IV.  1.4. 


130 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Browning  is  the  foremost  apostle  of  Hope.  He,  more  than  any 
other  great  author  of  the  age,  whether  philosopher,  or  poet,  or 
divine,  has  been  inspired  with  the  faith  that 

"a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched ; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst." 

Compare  with  this,  the  following  stanzas  from  Tennyson's  '  In 
Memoriam,'  Section  LIV. :  — 

"  Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood. 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete. 


Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 

At  last  —  far  off —  at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring." 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

Accompany  me,  my  young  friend,  in  my  survey  of  life  from 
youth  to  old  age. 

The  present  life  does  not  rise  to  its  best  and  then  decline  to  its 
worst ;  "  the  best  is  yet  to  be,  the  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first 
was  made." 

The  indecisions,  perplexities,  and  yearnings,  the  hopes  and  fears 
of  youth,  I  do  not  remonstrate  against.  They  are  the  conditions 
of  vitality  and  growth,  distinguish  man's  life  from  the  limited  com- 


ARGUMENTS  OF  'THE  POEMS.  131 

pleteness  of  the  "  low  kinds "  of  creation,  "  finished  and  finite 
clods  untroubled  by  a  spark  "  ;  and  should  be  prized  as  inseparable 
from  his  high  rank  in  existence. 

Life  would  have  nothing  to  boast  of,  were  man  formed  but  to 
experience  an  unalloyed  joy,  to  find  always  and  never  to  seek. 
Care  irks  not  the  crop-full  bird,  and  doubt  frets  not  the  maw- 
crammed  beast.  But  man  is  disturbed  by  a  divine  spark  which  is 
his  title  to  a  nearer  relationship  with  God  who  gives  than  with  his 
creatures  that  receive. 

The  rebuffs  he  meets  with  should  be  welcomed.  Life's  true 
success  is  secured  through  obstacles,  and  seeming  failures,  and  un- 
fulfilled aspirations.  He  is  but  a  brute  whose  soul  is  conformed 
to  his  flesh,  whose  spirit  works  for  the  play  of  arms  and  legs.  The 
test  of  the  body's  worth  should  be,  the  extent  to  which  it  can 
project  the  soul  on  its  lone  way. 

But  we  must  not  calculate  soul-profits  all  the  time.  Gifts  of 
every  kind  which  belong  to  our  nature  should  prove  their  use, 
their  own  good  in  themselves.  I  own  that  the  past  was  for  me 
profuse  of  power  on  every  side,  of  perfection  at  every  turn,  which 
my  eyes  and  ears  took  in,  and  my  brain  treasured  up.  The  heart 
should  beat  in  harmony  with  this  life,  and  feel  how  good  it  is  to 
live  and  learn,  and  see  the  whole  design.  I  who  once  saw  only 
Power,  now  see  Love  perfect  also,  and  am  thankful  that  I  was  a 
man,  and  trust  what  rriy  Maker  will  do  with  me. 

This  flesh  is  pleasant,  and  the  spul  can  repose  in  it,  after  its  own 
activities.  It  is  the  solid  land  to  which  it  can  return  when  wearied 
with  its  flights ;  and  we  often  wish,  in  our  yearnings  for  rest,  that 
we  might  hold  some  prize  to  match  those  manifold  possessions  of 
the  bnite,  might  gain  most  as  we  should  do  best ;  but  the  realiza- 
tion of  such  a  wish  is  not  compatible  with  the  dignity  of  our 
nature. 

Flesh  and  soul  must  be  mutually  subservient ;  one  must  not  be 
merely  subjected  to  the  other,  not  even  the  inferior  to  the  superior. 
Let  us  cry,  "  All  good  things  are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more, 
now,  than  flesh  helps  soul." 


132 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Let,  then,  youth  enter  into  its  heritage,  and  use  and  enjoy  it ; 
let  it  then  pass  into  an  approved  manhood,  "  for  aye  removed 
from  the  developed  brute ;  a  God,  though  in  the  germ  "  ;  let  it 
pass  fearless  and  unperplexed  as  to  what  weapons  to  select,  what 
armor  to  indue  for  the  battle  which  awaits  that  approved  man- 
hood. 

Youth  ended,  let  what  it  has  resulted  in,  be  taken  account  of; 
wherein  it  succeeded,  wherein  it  failed ;  and  having  proved  the 
past,  let  it  face  the  future,  satisfied  in  acting  to-morrow  what  is 
learned  to-day. 

As  it  was  better  that  youth  should  awkwardly  strive  toward  mak- 
ing, than  repose  in  what  it  found  made,  so  is  it  better  that  age, 
exempt  from  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt  further.  As  in  youth, 
age  was  waited  for,  so  in  age,  wait  for  death,  without  fear,  and  with 
the  absolute  soul-knowledge  which  is  independent  of  the  reasoning 
intellect  of  youth.  It  is  this  absolute  soul-knowledge  which  severs 
great  minds  from  small,  rather  than  intellectual  power. 

Human  judgments  differ.  Whom  shall  my  soul  believe  ?  One 
conclusion  may,  at  least,  be  rested  in :  a  man's  true  success  must 
not  be  estimated  by  things  done,  which  had  their  price  in  the 
world ;  but  by  that  which  the  world's  coarse  thumb  and  finger 
failed  to  plumb ;  by  his  immature  instincts  and  unsure  purposes 
which  weighed  not  as  his  work  in  the  world's  estimation,  yet  went 
toward  making  up  the  main  amount  of  his  real  worth ;  by  thoughts 
which  could  not  be  contained  in  narrow  acts,  by  fancies  which 
would  not  submit  to  the  bonds  of  language ;  by  all  that  he  strived 
after  and  could  not  attain,  by  all  that  was  ignored  by  men  with 
only  finite  and  realizable  aims  :  such  are  God's  standards  of  his 
worth. 

All  the  true  acquisitions  of  the  soul,  all  the  reflected  results  of 
its  energizing  after  the  unattainable  in  this  life,  all  that  has  truly 
been,  belong  to  the  absolute,  and  are  permanent  amid  all  earth's 
changes.  It  is,  indeed,  through  these  changes,  through  the  dance 
of  plastic  circumstance,  that  the  permanent  is  secured.  They 
are  the  machinery,  the  Divine  Potter's  wheel,  which  gives  the  soul 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


133 


its  bent,  tries  it,  and  turns  it  forth  a  cup  for  the  Master's  lips, 
sufficiently  impressed. 

"  So  take  and  use  Thy  work  ! 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim ! 
My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same." 

The  following  account  of  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  I  take  from  Dr.  F. 
J.  Furnivall's  '  Bibliography  of  Robert  Browning  '  ('  Browning  Soc. 
Papers,'  Part  II.,  p.  162)  :  — 

"  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  or  Ibn  Ezra,  was  a  learned  Jew,  1092-1167  A.D. 
Ibn  Ezra  and  Maimonides,  whom  he  is  said  to  have  visited  in  Egypt, 
were  two  of  the  four  great  Philosophers  or  Lights  of  the  Jews  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  Ibn  Ezra  was  born  at  Toledo  in  Spain,  about  1092  or 
1093  A.D.,  or  in  1088  according  to  Graetz,  '  Geschichte  der  Juden,1  vi. 
198.  He  was  poor,  but  studied  hard,  composed  poems  wherewith  to 
4  Adorn  my  own,  my  Hebrew  nation,'  married,  had  a  son  Isaac  (a  poet 
too),  travelled  to  Africa,  the  Holy  Land,  Rome  in  1140,  Persia,  India, 
Italy,  France,  England.  He  wrote  many  treatises  on  Hebrew  Grammar, 
astronomy,  mathematics,  &c.,  commentaries  on  the  books  of  the  Bible, 
&c.  —  many  of  them  in  Rome  —  and  two  pamphlets  in  England  '  for  a 
certain  Salomon  of  London.'  Joseph  of  Maudeville  was  one  of  his 
English  pupils.  He  died  in  1167.  at  the  age  of  75,  either  in  Kalahorra, 
on  the  frontier  of  Navarre,  or  in  Rome.  His  commentary  on  Isaiah 
has  been  englished  by  M.  Friedlander,  and  published  by  the  Society  of 
Hebrew  Literature,  Triibner,  1873.  From  the  Introduction  to  that 
book  I  take  these  details.  Ibn  Ezra  believed  in  a  future  life.  In  his 
commentary  on  Isaiah  Iv.  3,  '  And  your  soul  shall  live?  he  says,  '  That 
is,  your  soul  shall  live  forever  after  the  death  of  the  body,  or  you  will 
receive  new  life  through  Messiah,  when  you  will  return  to  the  Divine 
Law.'  See  also  on  Isaiah  xxxix.  18.  Of  the  potter's  clay  passage, 
Isaiah  xxix.  16,  he  has  only  a  translation,  'Shall  man  be  esteemed  as 
the  potter's  clay,'  and  no  comment  that  could  have  given  Browning  a 
hint  for  his  use  of  the  metaphor  in  his  poem,  even  if  he  had  ever  seen 
Ibn  Ezra's  commentary.  See  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra's  fine  '  Song  of  Death  * 
in  stanzas  1 2-20  of  the  grimly  humorous  Holy-Cross  Day." 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 
A  GRAMMARIAN'S  l  FUNERAL. 

Shortly  after  the  revival  of  learning  in  Europe. 

The  devoted  disciples  of  a  dead  grammarian  are  bearing  his 
body  up  a  mountain-side  for  burial  on  its  lofty  summit,  "  where 
meteors  shoot,  clouds  form,  lightnings  are  loosened,  stars  come 
and  go  !  Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  :  loftily  lying, 
leave  him, — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects,  living  and  dying." 

This  poem  is  informed  throughout  with  the  poet's  iterated  doc- 
trine in  regard  to  earth  life,  —  to  the  relativity  of  that  life.  The 
grammarian,  in  his  hunger  and  thirst  after  knowledge  and  truth, 
thought  not  of  time.  "  What's  time  ?  Leave  Now  for  dogs  and 
apes  !  Man  has  Forever."  "Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 
heedless  of  far  gain,  greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure  bad  is 
our  bargain  !  " 

The  poem  "  exhibits  something  of  the  life  of  the  Scaligers  and 
the  Casaubons,  of  many  an  early  scholar,  like  Roger  Bacon's 
friend,  Pierre  de  Maricourt,  working  at  some  region  of  knowledge, 
and  content  to  labor  without  fame  so  long  as  he  mastered  thor- 
oughly whatever  he  undertook"  ('  Contemporary  Rev.,'  iv.,  135). 

But  the  grammarian  was  true  to  one  side  only  of  Browning's 
philosophy  of  life.  He  disregarded  the  claims  of  the  physical 
life,  and  became  "soul-hydropic  with  a  sacred  thirst."2 
"  The  lyrico-dramatic  verse  of  this  monologue  is  especially  notice- 
able. There  is  a  march  in  it,  exhibiting  the  spirit  with  which  the 
bearers  of  the  corpse  are  conveying  it  up  the  mountain-side. 

AN  EPISTLE  CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDICAL  EXPERIENCE  OF 
KARSHISH,  THE  ARAB  PHYSICIAN. 

Karshish,  the  Arab  physician,  has  been  journeying  in  quest  of 
knowledge  pertaining  to  his  art,  and  writes  to  his  all-sagacious 

1  "Grammarian"  mustn't  be  understood  here  in  its  restricted  modern  sense; 
it  means  rather  one  devoted  to  learning,  or  letters,  in  general. 

2  "  Every  lust  is  a  kind  of  hydropic  distemper,  and  the  more  we  drink  the 
more  we  shall  thirst." — TILLOTSON,  quoted  in  'Webster.' 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


135 


master,  Abib,  ostensibly  about  the  specimens  he  has  gathered  of 
medicinal  plants  and  minerals,  and  the  observations  he  has  made ; 
but  his  real  interest,  which  he  endeavors  to  conceal  by  passing  to 
matters  of  greater  import  to  him,  as  he  would  have  his  sage  at 
home  believe,  is  in  what  he  pronounces  "  a  case  of  mania,  subin- 
duced  by  epilepsy."  His  last  letter  brought  his  journeyings  to 
Jericho.  He  is  now  on  his  way  to  Jerusalem,  and  has  reached 
Bethany,  where  he  passes  the  night. 

The  case  of  mania  which  so  interests  him,  —  far  more  than  he 
is  willing  to  admit,  —  is  that  of  Lazarus,  whose  firm  conviction 
rests  that  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him)  and  then  re- 
stored to  life  by  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe,  who  afterwards 
perished  in  a  tumult.  The  man  Lazarus  is  witless,  he  writes,  of 
the  relative  value  of  all  things.  Vast  armaments  assembled  to  be- 
siege his  city,  and  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds,  are  all  one 
to  him ;  while  at  some  trifling  fact,  he'll  gaze,  rapt  with  stupor,  as 
if  it  had  for  him  prodigious  import.  Should  his  child  sicken  unto 
death,  why  look  for  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness,  or  sus- 
pension of  his  daily  craft ;  while  a  word,  gesture,  or  glance  from 
that  same  child  at  play  or  laid  asleep,  will  start  him  to  an  agony  of 
fear,  exasperation,  just  as  like  !  The  law  of  the  life,  it  seems,  to 
which  he  was  temporarily  admitted,  has  become  to  him  the  law  of 
this  earthly  life ;  his  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay 
here.  He  appears  to  be  perfectly  submissive  to  the  heavenly  will, 
and  awaits  patiently  for  death  to  restore  his  being  to  equilibrium. 
He  is  by  no  means  apathetic,  but  loves  both  old  and  young,  affects 
the  very  brutes  and  birds  and  flowers  of  the  field.  This  man,  so 
restored  to  life,  regards  his  restorer  as,  who  but  God  himself, 
Creator  and  Sustainer  of  the  world,  that  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh 
on  it  awhile,  taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own 
house,  then  died  !  Here  Karshish  breaks  off  and  asks  pardon  for 
writing  of  such  trivial  matters,  when  there  are  so  important  ones 
to  treat  of,  and  states  that  he  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 
blue-flowering  borage  abounding,  the  Aleppo  sort,  very  nitrous. 
But  he  returns  again  to  the  subject,  and  tries  to  explain  the  pecu- 


136  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

liar  interest,  and  awe,  indeed,  the  man  has  inspired  him  with. 
Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  and  his  weariness,  he  thinks,  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  He  then  relates  the  weird  cir- 
cumstances under  which  he  met  him,  and  concludes  by  saying 
that  the  repose  he  will  have  at  Jerusalem  shall  make  amends  for 
the  time  his  letter  wastes,  his  master's  and  his  own.  Till  when, 
once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell ! 

But  in  spite  of  himself,  his  suppressed  interest  in  the  strange 
case  must  have  full  expression,  and  he  gives  way  to  all  reserve 
and  ejaculates  in  a  postscript :  — 

"  The  very  God!  think,  Abib  ;  dost  thou  think? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too  — 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  '  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here ! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself. 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine, 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee ! ' 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so :  it  is  strange." 

See  before,  p.  41,  some  remarks  on  the  psychological  phase  of 
the  monologue. 

"  The  monologue  is  a  signal  example  of  '  emotional  ratiocination.' 
There  is  a  flash  of  ecstasy  through  the  strangely  cautious  description 
of  Karshish  ;  every  syllable  is  weighed  and  thoughtful,  everywhere  the 
Hnes  swell  into  perfect  feeling."  —  ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 

"  As  an  example  of  our  poet's  dramatic  power  in  getting  right  at 
the  heart  of  a  man,  reading  what  is  there  written,  and  then  looking 
through  his  eyes  and  revealing  it  all  in  the  man's  own  speech,  nothing 
can  be  more  complete  in  its  inner  soundings  and  outer-keeping,  than 
the  epistle  containing  the  '  Strange  Medical  Experience  of  Karshish, 
the  Arab  Physician,'  who  has  been  picking  up  the  crumbs  of  learning 
on'  his  travels  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  writes  to  Abib,  the  all-sagacious, 
at  home.  It  is  so  solemnly  real  and  so  sagely  fine,"->-/V.  Brit.  Rev., 
May,  1861. 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


A  MARTYR'S  EPITAPH. 


137 


A  wonderfully  effective  expression,  effective  through  its  pathetic 
simplicity,  of  the  peaceful  spirit  of  a  Christian,  who  has  triumphed 
over  persecution  and  death,  and  passed  to  his  reward. 

SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER. 

The  speaker  in  this  monologue  is  a  Spanish  monk,  whose 
jealousy  toward  a  simple  and  unoffending  brother  has,  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  cloister,  developed  into  a  festering  malignity. 
If  hate,  he  says,  could  kill  a  man,  his  hate  would  certainly  kill 
Brother  Laurence.  He  is  watching  this  brother,  from  a  window 
of  the  cloister,  at  work  in  the  garden.  He  looks  with  contempt 
upon  his  honest  toil ;  repeats  mockingly  to  himself,  his  simple 
talk  when  at  meals,  about  the  weather  and  the  crops ;  sneers  at 
his  neatness,  and  orderliness,  and  cleanliness ;  imputes  to  him  his 
own  libidinousness.  He  takes  credit  to  himself  in  laying  cross- 
wise, in  Jesu's  praise,  his  knife  and  fork,  after  refection,  and  in 
illustrating  the  Trinity,  and  frustrating  the  Arian,  by  drinking  his 
watered  orange-pulp  in  three  sips,  while  Laurence  drains  his  at  one 
gulp.  Now  he  notices  Laurence's  tender  care  of  the  melons,  of 
which  it  appears  the  good  man  has  promised  all  the  brethren 
a  feast ;  "  so  nice  !  "  He  calls  to  him,  from  the  window,  "  How 
go  on  your  flowers  ?  None  double  ?  Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you 
spy?"  Laurence,  it  must  be  understood,  kindly  answers  him  in 
the  negative,  and  then  he  chuckles  to  himself,  "  Strange  !  —  and 
I,  too,  at  such  trouble,  keep  'em  close-nipped  on  the  sly ! " 
He  thinks  of  devising  means  of  causing  him  to  trip  on  a  great 
text  in  Galatians,  entailing  "  twenty-nine  distinct  damnations,  one 
sure,  if  another  fails"  ;  or  of  slyly  putting  his  "scrofulous  French 
novel "  in  his  way,  which  will  make  him  "  grovel  hand  and 
foot  in  Belial's  gripe."  In  his  malignity,  he  is  ready  to  pledge 
his  soul  to  Satan  (leaving  a  flaw  in  the  indenture),  to  see  blasted 
that  rose-acacia  Laurence  is  so  proud  of.  Here  the  vesper-bell 
interrupts  his  filthy  and  blasphemous  eructations,  and  he  turns  up 


138         ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

his  eyes  and  folds  his  hands  on  his  breast,  mumbling  "Plena 
gratia  ave  Virgo!  "  and  right  upon  the  prayer,  his  disgust  breaks 
out,  "  Gr-r-r  —  you  swine  !  " 

This  monologue  affords  a  signal  illustration  of  the  poet's  skill 
in  making  a  speaker,  while  directly  revealing  his  own  character, 
reflect  very  distinctly  the  character  of  another.  This  has  been 
seen  in  '  My  Last  Duchess,"  given  as  an  example  of  the  consti- 
tution of  this  art-form,  in  the  section  of  the  Introduction  on 
'  Browning's  Obscurity.' 

"The  'Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister,'  is  a  picture  (ghastly  in  its 
evident  truth)  of  superstition  which  has  survived  religion ;  of  a  heart 
which  has  abandoned  Jhe  love  of  kindred  and  friends,  only  to  lose 
itself  in  a  wilderness  of  petty  spite,  terminating  in  an  abyss  of  diaboli- 
cal hatred.  The  ordinary  providential  helps  to  goodness  have  been 
rejected ;  the  ill-provided  adventurer  has  sought  to  scale  the  high 
snow-peaks  of  saintliness,  —  he  has  missed  his  footing,  —  and  the  black 
chasm  which  yawns  beneath,  has  ingulfed  him."  —  E.  J.  H[ASELL],  in 
St,  Pauts  Magazine,  December,  1870. 

An  able  writer  in  the  'The  Contemporary  Review,'  Vol.  IV., 
p.  140,  justly  remarks  :  — 

"No  living  writer  —  and  we  do  not  know  any  one  in  the  past  who 
can  be  named,  in  this  respect,  in  the  same  breath  with  him  [Browning] 
—  approaches  his  power  of  analyzing  and  reproducing  the  morbid  forms, 
the  corrupt  semblances,  the  hypocrisies,  formalisms,  and  fanaticisms  of 
man's  religious  life.  The  wildness  of  an  Antinomian  predestinarianism 
has  never  been  so  grandly  painted  as  in  '  Johannes  Agricola  in  Medita- 
tion ' ;  the  white  heat  of  the  persecutor  glares  on  us,  like  a  nightmare 
spectre,  in  <  The  Heretic's  Tragedy.'  More  subtle  forms  are  drawn  with 
greater  elaboration.  If  '  Bishop  BlougranVs  Apology,'  in  many  of  its 
circumstances  and  touches,  suggests  the  thought  of  actual  portraiture, 
recalling  a  form  and  face  once  familiar  to  us,  ...  it  is  also  a  picture  of  a 
class  of  minds  which  we  meet  with  everywhere.  Conservative  scepti- 
cism that  persuades  itself  that  it  believes,  cynical  acuteness  in  discern- 
ing the  weak  points  either  of  mere  secularism  or  dreaming  mysticism, 
or  passionate  eagerness  to  reform,  avoiding  dangerous  extremes,  and 
taking  things  as  they  are  because  they  are  comfortable,  and  lead  to 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


139 


wealth,  enjoyment,  reputation,  —  this,  whether  a  true  account  or  not  of 
the  theologian  to  whom  we  have  referred  ...  is  yet  to  be  found  under 
many  eloquent  defences  of  the  faith,  many  fervent  and  scornful  denun- 
ciations of  criticism  and  free  thought.  ...  In  '  Calaban  upon  Setebos,' 
if  it  is  more  than  the  product  of  Mr.  Browning's  fondness  for  all 
abnormal  forms  of  spiritual  life,  speculating  among  other  things  on  the 
religious  thoughts  of  a  half  brute-like  savage,  we  must  see  a  protest 
against  the  thought  that  man  can  rise  by  himself  to  true  thoughts  of 
God,  and  develop  a  pure  theology  out  of  his  moral  consciousness.  So 
far  it  is  a  witness  for  the  necessity  of  a  revelation,  either  through  the 
immediate  action  of  the  Light  that  lighteth  every  man,  or  that  which 
has  been  given  to  mankind  in  spoken  or  written  words,  by  the  WORD 
that  was  in  the  beginning.  In  the  '  Death  in  the  Desert,1  in  like 
manner,  we  have  another  school  of  thought  analyzed  with  a  corre- 
sponding subtlety.  .  .  .  The  'Death  in  the  Desert'  is  worth  studying 
in  its  bearing  upon  the  mythical  school  of  interpretation,  and  as  a  pro- 
test, we  would  fain  hope,  from  Mr.  Browning's  own  mind  against  the 
thought  that  because  the  love  of  God  has  been  revealed  in  Christ,  and 
has  taught  us  the  greatness  of  all  true  human  love,  therefore, 

"  '  We  ourselves  make  the  love,  and  Christ  was  not.' 

"  In  one  remarkable  passage  at  the  close  of '  The  Legend  of  Pornic,' 
Mr.  Browning,  speaking  apparently  in  his  own  person,  proclaims  his 
belief  in  one  great  Christian  doctrine,  which  all  pantheistic  and  atheistic 
systems  formally  repudiate,  and  which  many  semi-Christian  thinkers 
implicitly  reject :  — 

"  '  The  candid  incline  to  surmise  of  late 

That  the  Christian  faith  may  be  false,  I  find, 

For  our  Essays  and  Reviews  1  debate 
Begins  to  tell  on  the  public  mind, 

And  Colenso's  2  words  have  weight. 

1  A  volume  which  appeared  in   1860,  made  up  of  essays  and  reviews,  the 
several  authors  having  "  written  in  entire  independence  of  each  other,  and 
without  concert  or  comparison."     These  essays  and  reviews  offset  the  extreme 
high  church  doctrine  of  the  Tracts  for  the  Times. 

2  John  W.    Colenso,    Bishop   of  Natal,    in    .South    Africa;    he   published 
works  questioning  the  inspiration   and  historical  accuracy  of  certain  parts  of 
the  Piible,  among  which  was  'The  Pentateuch,  and  the  Book  of  Joshua  criti- 
callv  examined." 


I40         ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

"  '  I  still,  to  suppose  it  true,  for  my  part, 

See  reasons  and  reasons :   this,  to  begin  — 

'Tis  the  faith  that  launched  point-blank  her  dart 
At  the  head  of  a  lie,  —  taught  Original  Sin, 

The  Corruption  of  Man's  Heart.'  " 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

On  which  the  Jews  were  forced  to  attend  an  annual  Christian  sermon  in 
Rome. 

The  argument  is  sufficiently  shown  by  what  is  prefixed  to  this 
poem.  The  '  Diary  by  the  Bishop's  Secretary,  1600,'  is  presumably 
imaginary. 

SAUL. 

This  is,  in  every  respect,  one  of  Browning's  grandest  poems ; 
and  in  all  that  is  included  in  the  idea  of  expression,  is  quite 
perfect. 

The  portion  of  Scripture  which  is  the  germ  of  the  poem,  and  it 
is  only  the  germ,  is  contained  in  the  First  Book  of  Samuel, 
chap.  xvi.  14—23. 

To  the  present  consolation  which  David  administers  to  Saul, 
with  harp  and  song,  and  the  Scripture  story  does  not  go  beyond 
this,  is  added  the  assurance  of  the  transmission  of  his  personality, 
and  of  the  influence  of  his  deeds ;  first,  through  those  who  have 
been  quickened  by  them,  and  who  will,  in  turn,  transmit  that 
quickening  —  "  Each  deed  thou  hast  done,  dies,  revives,  goes  to 
work  in  the  world  :  .  .  .  each  ray  of  thy  will,  every  flash  of  thy 
passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill  thy  whole  people,  the 
countless,  with  ardor,  till  they  too  give  forth  a  like  cheer  to  their 
sons  :  who,  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and  the  North  with  the  radiance 
thy  deed  was  the  germ  of " ;  and,  then,  through  records  that  will 
give  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part  in  his  being. 

The  consolation  is,  moreover,  carried  beyond  that  afforded  by 
earthly  fame  and  influence.  David's  yearnings  to  give  Saul  "  new 


ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 


141 


life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence,  as  this  moment,  —  had  love 
but  the  warrant,  love's  heart  to  dispense,"  pass  into  a  prophecy, 
based  on  his  own  loving  desires,  of  the  God-Man  who  shall  throw 
open  to  Saul  the  gates  of  that  new  life. 

With  this  prophecy,  David  leaves  Saul.  On  his  way  home,  in 
the  night,  he  represents  himself  as  attended  by  witnesses,  cohorts 
to  left  and  to  right.  At  the  dawn,  all  nature,  the  forests,  the 
wind,  beasts  and  birds,  even  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, 
appear  to  him  aware  of  the  new  law ;  the  little  brooks,  witnessing, 
murmured  with  all  but  hushed  voices,  "  E'en  so,  it  is  so  !  " 

A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

'  A  Death  in  the  Desert '  appears  to  have  been  inspired  by  the 
controversies  in  regard  to  the  historical  foundations  of  Christi- 
anity, and,  more  especially,  in  regard  to  the  character  and  the 
authorship  of  the  Fourth  Gospel  —  controversies  which  received 
their  first  great  impulse  from  the  Leben  Jesu  of  David  Friedrich 
Strauss,  first  published  in  1835.  An  English  translation  of  the 
fourth  edition,  1840,  by  Marian  Evans  (George  Eliot),  was  pub- 
lished in  London,  in  1846. 

The  immediate  occasion  of  the  composition  of  '  A  Death  in  the 
Desert'  was,  perhaps,  the  publication,  in  1863,  of  Joseph  Ernest 
Kenan's  Vie  de  Jesus.  'A  Death  in  the  Desert'  was  included  in 
the  poet's  '  Dramatis  Personae,'  published  in  the  following  year. 

"  In  style,  the  poem  a  little  recalls  Cleon ;  with  less  of  harmoni- 
ous grace  and  clear  classic  outline,  it  possesses  a  certain  stilled 
sweetness,  a  meditative  tenderness,  all  its  own,  and  beautifully 
appropriate  to  the  utterance  of  the  '  beloved  disciple.'  " — ARTHUR 

SVMONS. 

During  a  persecution  of  the  Christians,  the  aged  John  of  Pat- 
mos  has  been  secretly  conveyed,  by  some  faithful  disciples,  to  a 
cave  in  the  desert,  where  he  is  dying.  Revived  temporarily  by 
the  tender  ministrations  of  his  disciples,  he  is  enabled  to  tell  over 
his  past  labors  in  the  service  of  his  beloved  Master,  to  refute  the 


1 42  ARGUMENTS  OF  THE  POEMS. 

Antichrist  already  in  the  world,  and  to  answer  the  questions  which, 
with  his  far-reaching  spiritual  vision,  he  foresees  will  be  raised  in 
regard  to  Christ's  nature,  life,  doctrine,  and  miracles,  as  recorded 
in  the  Gospel  he  has  written.  These  services  he  feels  to  be  due 
from  him,  in  his  dying  hour,  as  the  sole  survivor  of  Christ's 
apostles  and  intimate  companions. 

This  is  the  only  composition  in  which  Browning  deals  directly 
with  historical  Christianity;  and  its  main  purpose  may,  in  brief, 
be  said  to  be,  to  set  forth  the  absoluteness  of  Christianity,  which 
cannot  be  affected  by  any  assaults  made  upon  its  external,  his- 
torical character. 

The  doctrine  of  the  trinal  unity  of  man  (the  what  Does,  what 
Knows,  what  Is)  ascribed  to  John  (vv.  82-104),  and  upon  which 
his  discourse  may  be  said  to  proceed,  leads  up  to  the  presentation 
of  the  final  stage  of  the  Christian  life  on  earth  —  that  stage  when 
man  has  won  his  way  to  the  kingdom  of  the  "what  Is"  within 
himself,  and  when  he  no  longer  needs  the  outward  supports  to  his 
faith  which  he  needed  before  he  passed  from  the  "  what  Knows." 
Christianity  is  a  religion  which  is  only  secondarily  a  doctrine  ad- 
dressed to  the  "  what  Knows."  It  is,  first  of  all,  a  religion  whose 
fountain-head  is  a  Personality  in  whom  all  that  is  spiritually 
potential  in  man,  was  realized,  and  in  responding  to  whom  the 
soul  of  man  is  quickened  and  regenerated.  And  the  Church, 
through  the  centuries,  has  been  kept  alive,  not  by  the  letter  of  the 
New  Testament,  for  the  letter  killeth,  but  by  a  succession  of  quick- 
ened and  regenerated  spirits,  "the  noble  Living  and  the  noble 
Dead,"  through  whom  the  Christ  has  been  awakened  and  devel- 
oped in  other  souls. 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 


WANTING   IS  — WHAT? 

WANTING  is  —  what  ? 
Summer  redundant, 
Blueness  abundant, 

—  Where  is  the  spot? 

Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same,  5 

—  Framework  whirh  waits  for  a  picture  to  frame  : 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower  ? 

Roses  embowering  with  nought  they  embower  ! 

Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  Comer, 

Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the  summer  !  10 

Breathe  but  one  breath 

Rose-beauty  above, 

And  all  that  was  death 

Grows  life,  grows  love, 

Grows  love  !  15 

4.  spot :  defect,  imperfection. 

9.  O  Comer:  6  ip^f-fvos,  Matt.  iii.  n;  xi.  3;  xxi.  9;  xxiii.  39;  Luke  xix.  38; 
John  i.  15 ;  iii.  31 ;  xii.  13.  Without  love,  the  Christ-spirit,  the  spirit  of  the  Comer, 
man  sees,  at  best,  only  dynamic  action,  blind  force,  in  nature ;  but 

"  love  greatens  and  glorifies 
Till  God's  a-glow,  to  the  loving  eyes, 
In  what  was  mere  earth  before." 

James  Lee's  Wife  (Along the  Beach). 


146        MY  STAR.  — THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

MY   STAR. 

ALL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red,  5 

Now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue  ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird  ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled  :       10 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it. 


THE   FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

r. 

YOU'RE  my  friend : 

I  was  the  man  the  Duke  spoke  to ; 

I  helped  the  Duchess  to  cast  off  his  yoke,  too : 

So,  here's  the  tale  from  beginning  to  end, 

My  friend  !  5 

2. 

Ours  is  a  great  wild  country : 
If  you  climb  to  our  castle's  top, 
I  don't  see  where  your  eye  can  stop; 
For  when  you've  passed  the  corn-field  country, 
Where  vineyards  leave  off,  flocks  are  packed,  10 

And  sheep-range  leads  to  cattle-tract, 

10.  Then  it  stops  like  a  bird :  it  beats  no  longer  with  emotion  responsive 
to  loving  eyes,  but  stops,  as  a  bird  stops  its  song  when  disturbed. 

2.  I  was  the  man :  see  vv.  440  and  847.    He 's  proud  of  the  honor  done  him. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  147 

And  cattle-tract  to  open-chase, 

And  open-chase  to  the  very  base 

O'  the  mountain  where,  at  a  funeral  pace, 

Round  about,  solemn  and  slow, 

One  by  one,  row  after  row, 

Up  and  up  the  pine-trees  go, 

So,  like  black  priests  up,  and  so 

Down  the  other  side  again 

To  another  greater,  wilder  country,  20 

That's  one  vast  red  drear  burnt-up  plain, 

Branched  through  and  through  with  many  a  vein 

Whence  iron's  dug,  and  copper's  dealt ; 

Look  right,  look  left,  look  straight  before,  — 

Beneath  they  mine,  above  they  smelt, 

Copper-ore  and  iron-ore, 

And  forge  and  furnace  mould  and  melt, 

And  so  on,  more  and  ever  more, 

Till  at  the  last,  for  a  bounding  belt, 

Comes  the  salt  sand  hoar  of  the  great  seashore,  30 

—  And  the  whole  is  our  Duke's  country.    . 

3- 

I  was  born  the  day  this  present  Duke  was  — 
(And  O,  says  the  song,  ere  I  was  old  !) 
In  the  castle  where  the  other  Duke  was  — 
(When  I  was  happy  and  young,  not  old  !) 
I  in  the  kennel,  he  in  the  bower : 
We  are  of  like  age  to  an  hour. 
My  father  was  huntsman  in  that  day : 
Who  has  not  heard  my  father  say, 

That,  when  a  boar  was  brought  to  bay,  40 

Three  times,  four  times  out  of  five, 
With  his  huntspear  he'd  contrive 
To  get  the  killing-place  transfixed, 
And  pin  him  true,  both  eyes  betwixt? 


1 48  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  that's  why  the  old  Duke  would  rather 
He  lost  a  salt-pit  than  my  father, 
And  loved  to  have  him  ever  in  call ; 
That's  why  my  father  stood  in  the  hall 
When  the  old  Duke  brought  his  infant  out 
To  show  the  people,  and  while  they  passed  50 

The  wondrous  bantling  round  about, 
Was  first  to  start  at  the  outside  blast 
As  the  Kaiser's  courier  blew  his  horn, 
Just  a  month  after  the  babe  was  bom. 
"  And,"  quoth  the  Kaiser's  courier,  "  since 
The  Duke  has  got  an  heir,  our  Prince 
Needs  the  Duke's  self  at  his  side  :  " 
The  Duke  looked  down  and  seemed  to  wince, 
But  he  thought  of  wars  o'er  the  world  wide, 
Castles  a-fire,  men  on  their  march,  60 

The  toppling  tower,  the  crashing  arch ; 
And  up  he  looked,  and  a  while  he  eyed 
The  row  of  crests  and  shields  and  banners 
•   Of  all  achievements  after  all  manners, 
And  "  Ay,"  said  the  Duke  with  a  surly  pride. 
The  more  was  his  comfort  when  he  died 
At  next  year's  end,  in  a  velvet  suit, 
With  a  gilt  glove  on  his  hand,  his  foot 
In  a  silken  shoe  for  a  leather  boot, 

Petticoated  like  a  herald,  70 

In  a  chamber  next  to  an  ante-room, 
Where  he  breathed  the  breath  of  page  and  groom, 
What  he  called  stink,  and  they,  perfume  : 
—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 
Mad  with  pride,  like  fire  to  manage  ! 
They  should  have  got  his  cheek  fresh  tannage 
Such  a  day  as  to-day  in  the  merry  sunshine  ! 

74.  Berold :  the  old  Duke's  favorite  hunting-horse. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Had  they  stuck  on  his  fist  a  rough-foot  merlin  ! 

(Hark,  the  wind's  on  the  heath  at  its  game  ! 

Oh  for  a  noble  falcon-lanner  80 

To  flap  each  broad  wing  like  a  banner, 

And  turn  in  the  wind,  and  dance  like  flame  !) 

Had  they  broached  a  cask  of  white  beer  from  Berlin  ! 

—  Or  if  you  incline  to  prescribe  mere  wine, 
Put  to  his  lips  when  they  saw  him  pine, 

A  cup  of  our  own  Moldavia  fine, 
Cotnar  for  instance,  green  as  May  sorrel 
And  ropy  with  sweet,  —  we  shall  not  quarrel. 

4- 

So,  at  home,  the  sick  tall  yellow  Duchess 
Was  left  with  the  infant  in  her  clutches,  90 

She  being  the  daughter  of  God  knows  who  : 
And  now  was  the  time  to  revisit  her  tribe. 
Abroad  and  afar  they  went,  the  two, 
And  let  our  people  rail  and  gibe 
At  the  empty  hall  and  extinguished  fire, 
As  loud  as  we  liked,  but  ever  in  vain, 
Till  after  long  years  we  had  our  desire, 
And  back  came  the  Duke  and  his  mother  again. 

5- 

And  he  came  back  the  pertest  little  ape 
That  ever  affronted  human  shape  ;  I00 

Full  of  his  travel,  struck  at  himself. 
You'd  say,  he  despised  our  bluff  old  ways  ? 

—  Not  he  !     For  in  Paris  they  told  the  elf 

That  our  rough  North  land  was  the  Land  of  Lays, 
The  one  good  thing  left  in  evil  days ; 

78.  merlin  :  a  species  of  hawk. 

80.  falcon-lanner:  a  long-tailed  species  of  hawk,  falco  laniarius. 
101.   struck  at  himself:  astonished  at  his  own  importance. 


ISO 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Since  the  Mid-Age  was  the  Heroic  Time, 

And  only  in  wild  nooks  like  ours 

Could  you  taste  of  it  yet  as  in  its  prime, 

And  see  true  castles  with  proper  towers, 

Young-hearted  women,  old-minded  men,  IIO 

And  manners  now  as  manners  were  then. 

So,  all  that  the  old  Dukes  had  been,  without  knowing  it, 

This  Duke  would  fain  know  he  was,  without  being  it ; 

'Twas  not  for  the  joy's  self,  but  the  joy  of  his  showing  it, 

Nor  for  the  pride's  self,  but  the  pride  of  our  seeing  it, 

He  revived  all  usages  thoroughly  worn-out, 

The  souls  of  them  fumed-forth,  the  hearts  of  them  torn-out : 

And  chief  in  the  chase  his  neck  he  perilled, 

On  a  lathy  horse,  all  legs  and  length, 

With  blood  for  bone,  all  speed,  no  strength ;  I20 

—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 
With  the  red  eye  slow  consuming  in  fire, 
And  the  thin  stiff  ear  like  an  abbey  spire  ! 

6. 

Well,  such  as  he  was,  he  must  marry,  we  heard ; 
And  out  of  a  convent,  at  the  word, 
Came  the  lady,  in  time  of  spring. 

—  Oh,  old  thoughts  they  cling,  they  cling ! 
That  day,  I  know,  with  a  dozen  oaths 

I  clad  myself  in  thick  hunting-clothes 

Fit  for  the  chase  of  urox  or  buffle  I3o 

In  winter-time  when  you  need  to  muffle. 

But  the  Duke  had  a  mind  we  should  cut  a  figure, 

And  so  we  saw  the  lady  arrive  : 

My  friend,  I  have  seen  a  white  crane  bigger  ! 

She  was  the  smallest  lady  alive, 

Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness, 

119.  lathy:  long  and  slim. 

130.    urox :  wild  bull ;  Ger.  auer-ochs.    buffle  :  buffalo. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  l^l 

Too  small,  almost,  for  the  life  and  gladness 

That  over-filled  her,  as  some  hive 

Out  of  the  bears'  reach  on  the  high  trees 

Is  crowded  with  its  safe  merry  bees  :  I40 

In  truth,  she  was  not  hard  to  please  ! 

Up  she  looked,  down  she  looked,  round  at  the  mead, 

Straight  at  the  castle,  that's  best  indeed 

To  look  at  from  outside  the  walls  : 

As  for  us,  styled  the  "  serfs  and  thralls," 

She  as  much  thanked  me  as  if  she  had  said  it, 

(With  her  eyes,  do  you  understand  ?) 

Because  I  patted  her  horse  while  I  led  it ; 

And  Max,  who  rode  on  her  other  hand, 

Said,  no  bird  flew  past  but  she  inquired  ISO 

What  its  true  name  was,  nor  ever  seemed  tired  — 

If  that  was  an  eagle  she  saw  hover, 

And  the  green  and  gray  bird  on  the  field  was  the  plover, 

When  suddenly  appeared  the  Duke  : 

And  as  down  she  sprung,  the  small  foot  pointed 

On  to  my  hand,  —  as  with  a  rebuke, 

And  as  if  his  backbone  were  not  jointed, 

The  Duke  stepped  rather  aside  than  forward, 

And  welcomed  her  with  his  grandest  smile  ; 

And,  mind  you,  his  mother  all  the  while  I60 

Chilled  in  the  rear,  like  a  wind  to  nor'ward ; 

And  up,  like  a  weary  yawn,  with  its  pulleys 

Went,  in  a  shriek,  the  rusty  portcullis ; 

And,  like  a  glad  sky  the  north-wind  sullies, 

The  lady's  face  stopped  its  play, 

As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray ; 

For  such  things  must  begin  some  one  day. 

7- 

In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again  ; 
As  who  should  say,  "  You  labor  in  vain  ! 


152 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who  meant  I70 

I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 

And  glad  in  his  sight ;  therefore,  glad  I  will  be." 

So,  smiling  as  at  first  went  she. 

8. 

She  was  active,  stirring,  all  fire  — 
Could  not  rest,  could  not  tire  — 
To  a  stone  she  might  have  given  life  ! 
(I  myself  loved  once,  in  my  day) 
—  For  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  huntsman's  wife, 
(I  had  a  wife,  I  know  what  I  say) 

Never  in  all  the  world  such  an  one  !  Is0 

And  here  was  plenty  to  be  done, 
And  she  that  could  do  it,  great  or  small, 
She  was  to  do  nothing  at  all. 
There  was  already  this  man  in  his  post, 
This  in  his  station,  and  that  in  his  office, 
And  the  Duke's  plan  admitted  a  wife,  at  most, 
To  meet  his  eye,  with  the  other  trophies, 
Now  outside  the  hall,  now  in  it, 
To  sit  thus,  stand  thus,  see  and  be  seen, 
At  the  proper  place  in  the  proper  minute,  190 

And  die  away  the  life  between. 
And  it  was  amusing  enough,  each  infraction 
Of  rule  —  (but  for  after-sadness  that  came) 
To  hear  the  consummate  self-satisfaction 
With  which  the  young  Duke  and  the  old  dame 
Would  let  her  advise,  and  criticise, 
And,  being  a  fool,  instruct  the  wise, 
And,  childlike,  parcel  out  praise  or  blame  : 
They  bore  it  all  in  complacent  guise, 

As  though  an  artificer,  after  contriving  200 

A  wheel-work  image  as  if  it  were  living, 

180.  such  an  one  :  i.e.,  for  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  huntsman's  wife. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Should  find  with  delight  it  could  motion  to  strike  him  ! 

So  found  the  Duke,  and  his  mother  like  him  : 

The  lady  hardly  got  a  rebuff — 

That  had  not  been  contemptuous  enough, 

With  his  cursed  smirk,  as  he  nodded  applause, 

And  kept  off  the  old  mother-cat's  claws. 

9- 

So,  the  little  lady  grew  silent  and  thin, 

Paling  and  ever  paling, 

As  the  way  is  with  a  hid  chagrin  ; 

And  the  Duke  perceived  that  she  was  ailing, 

And  said  in  his  heart, "  'Tis  done  to  spite  me, 

But  I  shall  find  in  my  power  to  right  me  ! " 

Don't  swear,  friend  !     The  old  one,  many  a  year, 

Is  in  hell ;  and  the  Duke's  self .  .  .  you  shall  hear. 

10. 

Well,  early  in  autumn,  at  first  winter-warning, 

When  the  stag  had  to  break  with  his  foot,  of  a  morning, 

A  drinking-hole  out  of  the  fresh  tender  ice, 

That  covered  the  pond  till  the  sun,  in  a  trice, 

Loosening  it,  let  out  a  ripple  of  gold, 

And  another  and  another,  and  faster  and  faster, 

Till,  dimpling  to  blindness,  the  wide  water  rolled, 

Then  it  so  chanced  that  the  Duke  our  master 

Asked  himself  what  were  the  pleasures  in  season, 

And  found,  since  the  calendar  bade  him  be  hearty, 

He  should  do  the  Middle  Age  no  treason 

In  resolving  on  a  hunting-party, 

Always  provided,  old  books  showed  the  way  of  it ! 

What  meant  old  poets  by  their  strictures? 

And  when  old  poets  had  said  their  say  of  it, 

How  taught  old  painters  in  their  pictures? 

We  must  reveit  to  the  proper  channels, 


154  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Workings  in  tapestry,  paintings  on  panels, 

And  gather  up  woodcraft's  authentic  traditions  : 

Here  was  food  for  our  various  ambitions, 

As  on  each  case,  exactly  stated  — 

To  encourage  your  dog,  now,  the  properest  chirrup, 

Or  best  prayer  to  St.  Hubert  on  mounting  your  stirrup  — 

We  of  the  household  took  thought  and  debated. 

Blessed  was  he  whose  back  ached  with  the  jerkin  240 

His  sire  was  wont  to  do  forest-work  in ; 

Blesseder  he  who  nobly  sunk  "  ohs  " 

And  "  ahs  "  while  he  tugged  on  his  grandsire's  trunk- hose ; 

What  signified  hats  if  they  had  no  rims  on, 

Each  slouching  before  and  behind  like  the  scallop, 

And  able  to  serve  at  sea  for  a  shallop, 

Loaded  with  lacquer  and  looped  with  crimson? 

So  that  the  deer  now,  to  make  a  short  rhyme  on't, 

What  with  our  Venerers,  Prickers,  and  Verderers, 

Might  hope  for  real  hunters  at  length  and  not  murderers,      250 

And  oh  the  Duke's  tailor,  he  had  a  hot  time  on't ! 

ii. 

Now  you  must  know  that  when  the  first  dizziness 

Of  flap-hats  and  buff-coats  and  jack-boots  subsided, 

The  Duke  put  this  question, "  The  Duke's  part  provided, 

Had  not  the  Duchess  some  share  in  the  business?" 

For  out  of  the  mouth  of  two  or  three  witnesses 

Did  he  establish  all  fit-or-unfitnesses  ; 

And,  after  much  laying  of  heads  together, 

Somebody's  cap  got  a  notable  feather 

By  the  announcement  with  proper  unction  260 

That  he  had  discovered  the  lady's  function ; 

238.  St.  Hubert :  patron  saint  of  huntsmen. 
247.  lacquer :  yellowish  varnish. 

249.  Venerers,  Prickers,  and  Verderers :  huntsmen,  light-horsemen,  and 
guardians  of  the  vert  and  venison  in  the  Duke's  forest. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  155 

Since  ancient  authors  gave  this  tenet, 

"When  horns  wind  a  mort  and  the  deer  is  at  siege, 

Let  the  dame  of  the  castle  prick  forth  on  her  jennet, 

And  with  water  to  wash  the  hands  of  her  liege 

In  a  clean  ewer  with  a  fair  towelling, 

Let  her  preside  at  the  disembowelling." 

Now,  my  friend,  if  you  had  so  little  religion 

As  to  catch  a  hawk,  some  falcon-lanner, 

And  thrust  her  broad  wings  like  a  banner  270 

Into  a  coop  for  a  vulgar  pigeon  ; 

And  if  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 

You  cut  her  claws,  and  sealed  her  eyes, 

And  clipped  her  wings,  and  tied  her  beak, 

Would  it  cause  you  any  great  surprise 

If,  when  you  decided  to  give  her  an  airing, 

You  found  she  needed  a  little  preparing  ?  — 

I  say,  should  you  be  such  a  curmudgeon, 

If  she  clung  to  the  perch,  as  to  take  it  in  dudgeon? 

Yet  when  the  Duke  to  his  lady  signified,  28° 

Just  a  day  before,  as  he  judged  most  dignified, 

In  what  a  pleasure  she  was  to  participate,  — 

And,  instead  of  leaping  wide  in  flashes, 

Her  eyes  just  lifted  their  long  lashes, 

As  if  pressed  by  fatigue  even  he  could  not  dissipate, 

And  duly  acknowledged  the  Duke's  forethought, 

But  spoke  of  her  health,  if  her  health  were  worth  aught, 

Of  the  weight  by  day  and  the  watch  by  night, 

And  much  wrong  now  that  used  to  be  right, 

So,  thanking  him,  declined  the  hunting,  —  29° 

Was  conduct  ever  more  affronting? 

With  all  the  ceremony  settled  — 

263.   wind  a  mort :  announce  that  the  deer  is  taken. 

273.  sealed :  more  properly  spelt  seeled,  a  term  in  falconry ;  Lat.  cilium,  an 
eyelid;  seel,  to  close  up  the  eyelids  of  a  hawk,  or  other  bird  (Fr.  ciller  les  yeux). 
"Come,  seeling  Night,  Skarfe  vp  the  tender  Eye  of  pittiful  Day."  Macbeth,  III. 
II.  46. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

With  the  towel  ready,  and  the  sewer 

Polishing  up  his  oldest  ewer, 

And  the  jennet  pitched  upon,  a  piebald, 

Black-barred,  cream-coated,  and  pink  eye-balled,  — 

No  wonder  if  the  Duke  was  nettled  ! 

And  when  she  persisted  nevertheless,  — 

Well,  I  suppose  here's  the  time  to  confess 

That  there  ran  half  round  our  lady's  chamber  300 

A  balcony  none  of  the  hardest  to  clamber ; 

And  that  Jacynth  the  tire-woman,  ready  in  waiting, 

Staid  in  call  outside,  what  need  of  relating  ? 

And  since  Jacynth  was  like  a  June  rose,  why,  a  fervent 

Adorer  of  Jacynth  of  course  was  your  servant ; 

And  if  she  had  the  habit  to  peep  through  the  casement, 

How  could  I  keep  at  any  vast  distance  ? 

And  so,  as  I  say,  on  the  lady's  persistence, 

The  Duke,  dumb  stricken  with  amazement, 

Stood  for  a  while  in  a  sultry  smother,  3IO 

And  then,  with  a  smile  that  partook  of  the  awful, 

Turned  her  over  to  his  yellow  mother 

To  learn  what  was  decorous  and  lawful ; 

And  the  mother  smelt  blood  with  a  cat-like  instinct, 

As  her  cheek  quick  whitened  through  all  its  quince- tinct. 

Oh,  but  the  lady  heard  the  whole  truth  at  once  ! 

What  meant  she?  —  Who  was  she? —  Her  duty  and  station, 

The  wisdom  of  age  and  the  folly  of  youth,  at  once, 

Its  decent  regard  and  its  fitting  relation  — 

In  brief,  my  friends,  set  all  the  devils  in  hell  free  320 

And  turn  them  out  to  carouse  in  a  belfry 

And  treat  the  priests  to  a  fifty-part  canon, 

And  then  you  may  guess  how  that  tongue  of  hers  ran  on  ! 

Well,  somehow  or  other  it  ended  at  last, 

And,  licking  her  whiskers,  out  she  passed  ; 

322.  fifty-part  canon :  "  A  canon,  in  music,  is  a  piece  wherein  the  subject 
is  repeated,  in  various  keys :  and  being  strictly  obeyed  in  the  repetition,  becomes 
the  '  canon '  —  the  imperative  law  —  to  what  follows.  Fifty  of  such  parts  would  be 
indeed  a  notable  peal :  to  manage  three  is  enough  of  an  achievement  for  a  good 
musician." — From  Poet's  Letter  to  the  Editor, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  157 

And  after  her,  —  making  (he  hoped)  a  face 

Like  Emperor  Nero  or  Sultan  Saladin, 

Stalked  the  Duke's  self  with  the  austere  grace 

Of  ancient  hero  or  modern  paladin, 

From  door  to  staircase  —  oh,  such  a  solemn  330 

Unbending  of  the  vertebral  column  ! 

12. 

However,  at  sunrise  our  company  mustered  ; 

And  here  was  the  huntsman  bidding  unkennel, 

And  there  'neath  his  bonnet  the  pricker  blustered, 

With  feather  dank  as  a  bough  of  wet  fennel  ; 

For  the  court-yard  walls  were  filled  with  fog 

You  might  cut  as  an  axe  chops  a  log  — 

Like  so  much  wool  for  color  and  bulkiness  ; 

And  out  rode  the  Duke  in  a  perfect  sulkiness, 

Since,  before  breakfast,  a  man  feels  but  queasily,  340 

And  a  sinking  at  the  lower  abdomen 

Begins  the  day  with  indifferent  omen. 

And  lo  !  as  he  looked  around  uneasily, 

The  sun  ploughed  the  fog  up  and  drove  it  asunder, 

This  way  and  that,  from  the  valley  under  ; 

And,  looking  through  the  court-yard  arch, 

Down  in  the  valley,  what  should  meet  him 

But  a  troop  of  gypsies  on  their  march  ? 

No  doubt  with  the  annual  gifts  to  greet  him. 


Now,  in  your  land,  gypsies  reach  you,  only  350 

After  reaching  all  lands  beside  ; 

North  they  go,  South  they  go,  trooping  or  lonely, 

And  still,  as  they  travel  far  and  wide, 

Catch  they  and  keep  now  a  trace  here,  a  trace  there, 

That  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  place  here,  a  place  there. 

But  with  us,  I  believe  they  rise  out  of  the  ground, 

354.  Catch  they  and  keep  :  i.e.,  in  their  expression,  or  bearing,  or  manner. 


I58  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  nowhere  else,  I  take  it,  are  found 

With  the  earth-tint  yet  so  freshly  embrowned  ; 

Born,  no  doubt,  like  insects  which  breed  on 

The  very  fruit  they  are  meant  to  feed  on.  36c 

For  the  earth  —  not  a  use  to  which  they  don't  turn  it, 

The  ore  that  grows  in  the  mountain's  womb, 

Or  the  sand  in  the  pits  like  a  honeycomb, 

They  sift  and  soften  it,  bake  it  and  burn  it  — 

Whether  they  weld  you,  for  instance,  a  snaffle 

With  side-bars  never  a  brute  can  baffle ; 

Or  a  lock  that's  a  puzzle  of  wards  within  wards ; 

Or,  if  your  colt's  fore  foot  inclines  to  curve  inwards, 

Horseshoes  they  hammer  which  turn  on  a  swivel 

And  won't  allow  the  hoof  to  shrivel.  37o 

Then  they  cast  bells  like  the  shell  of  the  winkle 

That  keep  a  stout  heart  in  the  ram  with  their  tinkle ; 

But  the  sand  —  they  pinch  and  pound  it  like  otters ; 

Commend  me  to  gypsy  glass-makers  and  potters  ! 

Glasses  they'll  blow  you,  crystal-clear, 

Where  just  a  faint  cloud  of  rose  shall  appear, 

As  if  in  pure  water  you  dropped  and  let  die 

A  bruised  black-blooded  mulberry ; 

And  that  other  sort,  their  crowning  pride, 

With  long  white  threads  distinct  inside,  38o 

Like  the  lake-flower's  fibrous  roots  which  dangle 

Loose  such  a  length  and  never  tangle, 

Where  the  bold  sword-lily  cuts  the  clear  waters, 

And  the  cup-lily  couches  with  all  the  white  daughters : 

Such  are  the  works  they  put  their  hand  to, 

The  uses  they  turn  and  twist  iron  and  sand  to. 

And  these  made  the  troop,  which  our  Duke  saw  sally 

Toward  his  castle  from  out  of  the  valley, 

Men  and  women,  like  new-hatched  spiders, 

Come  out  with  the  morning  to  greet  our  riders.  39o 

And  up  they  wound  till  they  reached  the  ditch, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  159 

Whereat  all  stopped  save  one,  a  witch 

That  I  knew,  as  she  hobbled  from  the  group, 

By  her  gait  directly  and  her  stoop, 

I,  whom  Jacynth  was  used  to  importune 

To  let  that  same  witch  tell  us  our  fortune. 

The  oldest  gypsy  then  above  ground ; 

And,  sure  as  the  autumn  season  came  round, 

She  paid  us  a  visit  for  profit  or  pastime, 

And  every  time,  as  she  swore,  for  the  last  time.  40o 

And  presently  she  was  seen  to  sidle 

Up  to  the  Duke  till  she  touched  his  bridle, 

So  that  the  horse  of  a  sudden  reared  up 

As  under  its  nose  the  old  witch  peered  up 

With  her  worn-out  eyes,  or  rather  eye-holes, 

Of  no  use  now  but  to  gather  brine, 

And  began  a  kind  of  level  whine 

Such  as  they  used  to  sing  to  their  viols 

When  their  ditties  they  go  grinding 

Up  and  down  with  nobody  minding ;  4IO 

And  then,  as  of  old,  at  the  end  of  the  humming 

Her  usual  presents  were  forthcoming 

—  A  dog-whistle  blowing  the  fiercest  of  trebles 

(Just  a  seashore  stone  holding  a  dozen  fine  pebbles), 

Or  a  porcelain  mouth-piece  to  screw  on  a  pipe-end,  — 

And  so  she  awaited  her  annual  stipend. 

But  this  time,  the  Duke  would  scarcely  vouchsafe 

A  word  in  reply ;  and  in  vain  she  felt 

With  twitching  fingers  at  her  belt 

For  the  purse  of  sleek  pine-martin  pelt,  42C 

Ready  to  put  what  he  gave  in  her  pouch  safe,  — 

Till,  either  to  quicken  his  apprehension, 

Or  possibly  with  an  after-intention, 

She  was  come,  she  said,  to  pay  her  duty 

To  the  new  Duchess,  the  youthful  beauty. 

407.  level :  monotonous. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

No  sooner  had  she  named  his  lady, 

Than  a  shine  lit  up  the  face  so  shady, 

And  its  smirk  returned  with  a  novel  meaning  — 

For  it  struck  him,  the  babe  just  wanted  weaning ; 

If  one  gave  her  a  taste  of  what  life  was  and  sorrow,  430 

She,  foolish  to-day,  would  be  wiser  to-morrow ; 

And  who  so  fit  a  teacher  of  trouble 

As  this  sordid  crone  bent  well-nigh  double  ? 

So,  glancing  at  her  wolf-skin  vesture 

(If  such  it  was,  for  they  grow  so  hirsute 

That  their  own  fleece  serves  for  natural  fur-suit) 

He  was  contrasting,  'twas  plain  from  his  gesture, 

The  life  of  the  lady  so  flower-like  and  delicate 

With  the  loathsome  squalor  of  this  helicat. 

I,  in  brief,  was  the  man  the  Duke  beckoned  440 

From  out  of  the  throng ;  and  while  I  drew  near 

He  told  the  crone  —  as  I  since  have  reckoned 

By  the  way  he  bent  and  spoke  into  her  ear 

With  circumspection  and  mystery  — 

The  main  of  the  lady's  history, 

Her  frowardness  and  ingratitude ; 

And  for  all  the  crone's  submissive  attitude 

I  could  see  round  her  mouth  the  loose  plaits  tightening, 

And  her  brow  with  assenting  intelligence  brightening, 

As  though  she  engaged  with  hearty  good  will  450 

Whatever  he  now  might  enjoin  to  fulfil, 

And  promised  the  lady  a  thorough  frightening. 

And  so,  just  giving  her  a  glimpse 

Of  a  purse,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  imps 

The  wing  of  the  hawk  that  shall  fetch  the  hernshaw, 


439.  helicat :  for  hell-cat  ?  hag  or  witch. 

454.  imps :  repairs  a  wing  by  inserting  feathers ;  impen  or  ympen,  in  O.  E., 
means  to  ingraft.  "  It  often  falls  out  that  a  hawk  breaks  her  wing  and  train-feathers, 
so  that  others  must  be  set  in  their  steads,  which  is  termed  ymping  them." — -The 
Gentleman's  Recreation,  Part  2,  Hawking,  1686. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  161 

He  bade  me  take  the  gypsy  mother 

And  set  her  telling  some  story  or  other 

Of  hill  or  dale,  oak-wood  or  fernshaw, 

To  while  away  a  weary  hour 

For  the  lady  left  alone  in  her  bower,  46o 

Whose  mind  and  body  craved  exertion 

And  yet  shrank  from  all  better  diversion. 

14. 

Then  clapping  heel  to  his  horse,  the  mere  curveter, 

Out  rode  the  Duke,  and  after  his  hollo 

Horses  and  hounds  swept,  huntsman  and  servitor, 

And  back  I  turned  and  bade  the  crone  follow. 

And  what  makes  me  confident  what's  to  be  told  you 

Had  all  along  been  of  this  crone's  devising, 

Is,  that,  on  looking  round  sharply,  behold  you, 

There  was  a  novelty  quick  as  surprising :  47o 

For  first,  she  had  shot  up  a  full  head  in  stature, 

And  her  step  kept  pace  with  mine  nor  faltered, 

As  if  age  had  foregone  its  usurpature, 

And  the  ignoble  mien  was  wholly  altered, 

And  the  face  looked  quite  of  another  nature, 

And  the  change  reached  too,  whatever  the  change  meant, 

Her  shaggy  wolf-skin  cloak's  arrangment : 

For  where  its  tatters  hung  loose  like  sedges, 

Gold  coins  were  glittering  on  the  edges, 

Like  the  band-roll  strung  with  tomans  4&: 

Which  proves  the  veil  a  Persian  woman's  : 

And  under  her  brow,  like  a  snail's  horns  newly 

Come  out  as  after  the  rain  he  paces, 

Two  unmistakable  eye-points  duly 

Live  and  aware  looked  out  of  their  places. 

So,  we  went  and  found  Jacynth  at  the  entry 

463.   curveter  :  a  leaping  horse. 
480.   tomans  :  Persian  coins. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Of  the  lady's  chamber  standing  sentry  ; 

I  told  the  command  and  produced  my  companion, 

And  Jacynth  rejoiced  to  admit  any  one, 

For  since  last  night,  by  the  same  token,  490 

Not  a  single  word  had  the  lady  spoken  : 

They  went  in  both  to  the  presence  together, 

While  I  in  the  balcony  watched  the  weather. 


And  now,  what  took  place  at  the  very  first  of  all, 

I  cannot  tell,  as  I  never  could  learn  it  : 

Jacynth  constantly  wished  a  curse  to  fall 

On  that  little  head  of  hers  and  burn  it 

If  she  knew  how  she  came  to  drop  so  soundly 

Asleep  of  a  sudden,  and  there  continue 

The  whole  time,  sleeping  as  profoundly  soo 

As  one  of  the  boars  my  father  would  pin  you 

'Twixt  the  eyes  where  life  holds  garrison, 

—  Jacynth,  forgive  me  the  comparison  ! 

But  where  I  begin  my  own  narration 

Is  a  little  after  I  took  my  station 

To  breathe  the  fresh  air  from  the  balcony, 

And,  having  in  those  days  a  falcon  eye, 

To  follow  the  hunt  through  the  open  country, 

From  where  the  bushes  thinlier  crested 

The  hillocks,  to  a  plain  where's  not  one  tree.  5IO 

When,  in  a  moment,  my  ear  was  arrested 

By  —  was  it  singing,  or  was  it  saying, 

Or  a  strange  musical  instrument  playing 

In  the  chamber  ?  —  and  to  be  certain 

I  pushed  the  lattice,  pulled  the  curtain, 

And  there  lay  Jacynth  asleep, 

490.  by  the  same  token  :  by  a  presentiment  or  forewarning  of  the  same. 
501.  you  :  ethical  dative  ;  there  are  several  examples  in  the  poem,  and  of  "  me  "  ; 
see  especially  v.  876. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  ^3 

Yet  as  if  a  watch  she  tried  to  keep, 
In  a  rosy  sleep  along  the  floor 
With  her  head  against  the  door ; 

While  in  the  midst,  on  the  seat  of  state,  S2c, 

Was  a  queen  —  the  gypsy  woman  late, 
With  head  and  face  downbent 
On  the  lady's  head  and  face  intent : 
For,  coiled  at  her  feet  like  a  child  at  ease, 
The  lady  sat  between  her  knees, 
And  o'er  them  the  lady's  clasped  hands  met, 
And  on  those  hands  her  chin  was  set, 
And  her  upturned  face  met  the  face  of  the  crone 
Wherein  the  eyes  had  grown  and  grown 
As  if  she  could  double  and  quadruple  53o 

At  pleasure  the  play  of  either  pupil 
—  Very  like,  by  her  hands'  slow  fanning, 
As  up  and  down  like  a  gor-crow's  flappers 
They  moved  to  measure,  or  bell-clappers. 
I  said,  "  Is  it  blessing,  is  it  banning, 
Do  they  applaud  you  or  burlesque  you  — 
Those  hands  and  fingers  with  no  flesh  on?  " 
But,  just  as  I  thought  to  spring  in  to  the  rescue, 
At  once  I  was  stopped  by  the  lady's  expression : 
For  it  was  life  her  eyes  were  drinking  540 

From  the  crone's  wide  pair  above  unwinking, 

—  Life's  pure  fire,  received  without  shrinking, 
Into  the  heart  and  breast  whose  heaving 
Told  you  no  single  drop  they  were  leaving, 

—  Life  that,  filling  her,  passed  redundant 
Into  her  very  hair,  back  swerving 

Over  each  shoulder,  loose  and  abundant, 

As  her  head  thrown  back  showed  the  white  throat  curving ; 

And  the  very  tresses  shared  in  the  pleasure, 

Moving  to  the  mystic  measure,  SSo 

Bounding  as  the  bosom  bounded. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

I  stopped  short,  more  and  more  confounded, 

As  still  her  cheeks  burned  and  eyes  glistened, 

As  she  listened  and  she  listened  : 

When  all  at  once  a  hand  detained  me, 

The  selfsame  contagion  gained  me, 

And  I  kept  time  to  the  wondrous  chime, 

Making  out  words  and  prose  and  rhyme, 

Till  it  seemed  that  the  music  furled 

Its  wings  like  a  task  fulfilled,  and  dropped  S6o 

From  under  the  words  it  first  had  propped, 

And  left  them  midway  in  the  world, 

Word  took  word  as  hand  takes  hand, 

I  could  hear  at  last,  and  understand, 

And  when  I  held  the  unbroken  thread, 

The  gypsy  said  :  — 

"  And  so  at  last  we  find  my  tribe. 
And  so  I  set  thee  in  the  midst, 
And  to  one  and  all  of  them  describe 

What  thou  saidst  and  what  thou  didst,  S7o 

Our  long  and  terrible  journey  through, 
And  all  thou  art  ready  to  say  and  do 
In  the  trials  that  remain  : 
I  trace  them  the  vein  and  the  other  vein 
That  meet  on  thy  brow  and  part  again, 
Making  our  rapid  mystic  mark  ; 
And  I  bid  my  people  prove  and  probe 
Each  eye's  profound  and  glorious  globe, 
Till  they  detect  the  kindred  spark 

In  those  depths  so  dear  and  dark,  580 

Like  the  spots  that  snap  and  burst  and  flee, 
Circling  over  the  midnight  sea. 
And  on  that  round  young  cheek  of  thine 
I  make  them  recognize  the  tinge, 
As  when  of  the  costly  scarlet  wine 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  ^5 

They  drip  so  much  as  will  impinge 

And  spread  in  a  thinnest  scale  afloat 

One  thick  gold  drop  from  the  olive's  coat 

Over  a  silver  plate  whose  sheen 

Still  through  the  mixture  shall  be  seen.  S90 

For  so  I  prove  thee,  to  one  and  all, 

Fit,  when  my  people  ope  their  breast, 

To  see  the  sign,  and  hear  the  call, 

And  take  the  vow,  and  stand  the  test 

Which  adds  one  more  child  to  the  rest  — 

When  the  breast  is  bare  and  the  arms  are  wide, 

And  the  world  is  left  outside. 

For  there  is  probation  to  decree, 

And  many  and  long  must  the  trials  be 

Thou  shalt  victoriously  endure,  600 

If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes  are  sure ; 

Like  a  jewel-finder's  fierce  assay 

Of  the  prize  he  dug  from  its  mountain  tomb,  — 

Let  once  the  vindicating  ray 

Leap  out  amid  the  anxious  gloom, 

And  steel  and  fire  have  done  their  part, 

And  the  prize  falls  on  its  finder's  heart ; 

So,  trial  after  trial  past, 

Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  last 

Breathless,  half  in  trance  610 

With  the  thrill  of  the  great  deliverance, 

Into  our  arms  forevermore  ; 

And  thou  shalt  know,  those  arms  once  curled 

About  thee,  what  we  knew  before, 

How  love  is  the  only  good  in  the  world. 

Henceforth  be  loved  as  heart  can  love, 

586.  impinge :   to  strike  or  fall  upon  or  against ;  in  the  following  passage  used 
ethically :  — 

"  For  I  find  this  black  mark  impinge  the  man, 
That  he  believes  in  just  the  vile  of  life." 

— The  Ring  and  the  Book:  Tht  Pojx,  v.  511, 


1 66  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve  ! 

Stand  up,  look  below, 

It  is  our  life  at  thy  feet  we  throw 

To  step  with  into  light  and  joy ;  620 

Not  a  power  of  life  but  we  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want ; 

Art  thou  the  tree  that  props  the  plant, 

Or  the  climbing  plant  that  seeks  the  tree  — 

Canst  thou  help  us,  must  we  help  thee  ? 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 

They  would  do  more  than  the  world  has  done ; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Ye  vainly  through  the  world  should  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might  630 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right : 

So,  to  approach  at  least  that  end, 

And  blend,  —  as  much  as  may  be,  blend 

Thee  with  us  or  us  with  thee,  — 

As  climbing  plant  or  propping  tree, 

Shall  some  one  deck  thee  over  and  down, 

Up  and  about,  with  blossoms  and  leaves? 

Fix  his  heart's  fruit  for  thy  garland  crown, 

Cling  with  his  soul  as  the  gourd-vine  cleaves, 

Die  on  thy  boughs  and  disappear  540 

While  not  a  leaf  of  thine  is  sere  ? 

Or  is  the  other  fate  in  store, 

And  art  thou  fitted  to  adore, 

To  give  thy  wondrous  self  away, 

And  take  a  stronger  nature's  sway? 

I  foresee  and  could  foretell 

Thy  future  portion,  sure  and  well : 

But  those  passionate  eyes  speak  true,  speak  true, 

Let  them  say  what  thou  shalt  do  ! 

Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life,  650 

In  its  peace  or  in  its  strife, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 


167 


Never  shall  be  unobserved ; 

We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 

And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear,  — 

Lo,  hast  thou  kept  thy  path  or  swerved, 

We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 

With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 

Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 

Glad,  angry  —  but  indifferent,  no  ! 

Whether  it  be  thy  lot  to  go,  660 

For  the  good  of  us  all,  where  the  haters  meet 

In  the  crowded  city's  horrible  street ; 

Or  thou  step  alone  through  the  morass 

Where  never  sound  yet  was 

Save  the  dry  quick  clap  of  the  stork's  bill, 

For  the  air  is  still,  and  the  water  still, 

When  the  blue  breast  of  the  dipping  coot 

Dives  under,  and  all  is  mute. 

So  at  the  last  shall  come  old  age, 

Decrepit  as  befits  that  stage  ;  670 

How  else  wouldst  thou  retire  apart 

With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy  heart, 

And  gather  all  to  the  very  least 

Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast, 

Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 

The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind? 

Ponder  on  the  entire  past 

Laid  together  thus  at  last, 

When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 

The  first  fresh  with  the  faded  hues,  680 

And  the  outline  of  the  whole, 

As  round  eve's  shades  their  framework  roll, 

Grandly  fronts  for  once  thy  soul. 

And  then  as,  'mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 

Of  yet  another  morning  breaks, 

And  like  the  hand  which  ends  a  dream, 


!68  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Death,  with  the  might  of  his  sunbeam, 
Touches  the  flesh  and  the  soul  awakes, 
Then  "  — 

Ay,  then  indeed  something  would  happen  ! 
But  what?.   For  here  her  voice  changed  like  a  bird's ;         690 
There  grew  more  of  the  music  and  less  of  the  words ; 
Had  Jacynth  only  been  by  me  to  clap  pen 
To  paper  and  put  you  down  every  syllable 
With  those  clever  clerkly  fingers, 
All  I've  forgotten  as  well  as  what  lingers 
In  this  old  brain  of  mine  that's  but  ill  able 
To  give  you  even  this  poor  version 
Of  the  speech  I  spoil,  as  it  were,  with  stammering ! 
—  More  fault  of  those  who  had  the  hammering 
Of  prosody  into  me  and  syntax,  700 

And  did  it,  not  with  hobnails  but  tintacks  ! 
But  to  return  from  this  excursion,  — 
Just,  do  you  mark,  when  the  song  was  sweetest, 
The  peace  most  deep  and  the  charm  completest, 

567-689.  "  When  higher  laws  draw  the  spirit  out  of  itself  into  the  life  of  others ; 
when  grief  has  waked  in  it,  not  a  self-centred  despair,  but  a  divine  sympathy;  when 
it  looks  from  the  narrow  limits  of  its  own  suffering  to  the  largeness  of  the  world  and 
the  sorrows  it  can  lighten,  we  can  dimly  apprehend  that  it  has  taken  flight  and  has 
found  its  freedom  in  a  region  whither  earth-bound  spirits  cannot  follow  it.  Surely 
the  Gypsy's  message  was  this  —  if  the  Duchess  would  leave  her  own  troubles  and 
throw  herself  into  the  life  of  others,  she  would  be  free.  None  can  give  true  sympa- 
thy but  those  who  have  suffered  and  learnt  to  love,  therefore  she  must  be  proved, — 
'  Fit  when  my  people  ope  their  breast,'  etc.  (vv.  592-601).  Passing  from  the  bond- 
age she  has  endured  she  will  still  have  trials,  but  the  old  pain  will  have  no  power 
to  touch  her.  She  has  learnt  all  it  can  teach,  and  the  world  will  be  richer  for  it. 
The  Gypsy  Queen  will  not  foretell  what  her  future  life  may  be ;  the  true  powers  of 
self-less  love  are  not  yet  gauged,  and  the  power  of  the  union  of  those  that  truly  love 
has  never  been  tried.  '  If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one,"  etc.  (vv.  626-631).  Love 
at  its  highest  is  not  yet  known  to  us,  but  the  passionate  eyes  of  the  Duchess  tell  us  it 
will  not  be  a  life  of  quiescence.  Giving  herself  out  freely  for  the  good  of  all  she  can 
never  be  alone  again,  — '  We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways.'  The  great  company 
of  those  who  need  her,  the  gypsy  band  of  all  human  claims.  Death  to  such  a  life 
is  but '  the  hand  that  ends  a  dream.'  What  was  to  come  after  not  even  the  Gypsy 
Queen  could  tell."  —  Mrs.  Owen  (Browning  Spf,  Papers,'  Part  IV.  p.  52*). 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  169 

There  came,  shall  I  say,  a  snap  — 

And  the  charm  vanished  ! 

And  my  sense  returned,  so  strangely  banished, 

And,  starting  as  from  a  nap, 

I  knew  the  crone  was  bewitching  my  lady, 

With  Jacynth  asleep ;  and  but  one  spring  made  I  7i0 

Down  from  the  casement,  round  to  the  portal, 

Another  minute  and  I  had  entered,  — 

When  the  door  opened,  and  more  than  mortal 

Stood,  with  a  face  where  to  my  mind  centred 

All  beauties  I  ever  saw  or  shall  see, 

The  Duchess  :  I  stopped  as  if  struck  by  palsy. 

She  was  so  different,  happy  and  beautiful, 

I  felt  at  once  that  all  was  best, 

And  that  I  had  nothing  to  do,  for  the  rest, 

But  wait  her  commands,  obey  and  be  dutiful.  7ao 

Not  that,  in  fact,  there  was  any  commanding ; 

I  saw  the  glory  of  her  eye, 

And  the  brow's  height  and  the  breast's  expanding, 

And  I  was  hers  to  live  or  to  die. 

As  for  finding  what  she  wanted, 

You  know  God  Almighty  granted 

Such  little  signs  should  serve  wild  creatures 

To  tell  one  another  all  their  desires, 

So  that  each  knows  what  his  friend  requires, 

And  does  its  bidding  without  teachers.  73o 

I  preceded  her ;  the  crone 

Followed  silent  and  alone ; 

I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  merely  jabbered 

In  the  old  style ;  both  her  eyes  had  slunk 

Back  to  their  pits  ;  her  stature  shrunk ; 

In  short,  the  soul  in  its  body  sunk 

Like  a  blade  sent  home  to  its  scabbard. 

We  descended,  I  preceding ; 

712.   had  :  past  subj.,  should  have. 


170  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Crossed  the  court  with  nobody  heeding ; 

All  the  world  was  at  the  chase,  74o 

The  court-yard  like  a  desert-place, 

The  stable  emptied  of  its  small  fry ; 

I  saddled  myself  the  very  palfrey 

I  remember  patting  while  it  carried  her, 

The  day  she  arrived  and  the  Duke  married  her. 

And,  do  you  know,  though  it's  easy  deceiving 

One's  self  in  such  matters,  I  can't  help  believing 

The  lady  had  not  forgotten  it  either, 

And  knew  the  poor  devil  so  much  beneath  her 

Would  have  been  only  too  glad,  for  her  service,  750 

To  dance  on  hot  ploughshares  like  a  Turk  dervise, 

But,  unable  to  pay  proper  duty  where  owing  it, 

Was  reduced  to  that  pitiful  method  of  showing  it. 

For  though,  the  moment  I  began  setting 

His  saddle  on  my  own  nag  of  Berold's  begetting 

(Not  that  I  meant  to  be  obtrusive), 

She  stopped  me,  while  his  rug  was  shifting, 

By  a  single  rapid  finger's  lifting, 

And,  with  a  gesture  kind  but  conclusive, 

And  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  refused  me,  —  76o 

I  say,  although  she  never  used  me, 

Yet  when  she  was  mounted,  the  gypsy  behind  her, 

And  I  ventured  to  remind  her, 

I  suppose  with  a  voice  of  less  steadiness 

Than  usual,  for  my  feeling  exceeded  me, 

—  Something  to  the  effect  that  I  was  in  readiness 

Whenever  God  should  please  she  needed  me,  — 

Then,  do  you  know,  her  face  looked  down  on  me 

With  a  look  that  placed  a  crown  on  me, 

And  she  felt  in  her  bosom,  —  mark,  her  bosom  —  770 

And,  as  a  flower-tree  drops  its  blossom, 

Dropped  me  ...  ah  !  had  it  been  a  purse 

753.  that  pitiful  method :  i.e.,  patting  her  palfrey. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 


171 


Of  silver,  my  friend,  or  gold  that's  worse, 

Why,  you  see,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 

So  understood,  —  that  a  true  heart  so  may  gain 

Such  a  reward,  —  I  should  have  gone  home  again, 

Kissed  Jacynth,  and  soberly  drowned  myself ! 

It  was  a  little  plait  of  hair 

Such  as  friends  in  a  convent  make 

To  wear,  each  for  the  other's  sake,  —  78o 

This,  see,  which  at  my  breast  I  wear, 

Ever  did  (rather  to  Jacynth's  grudgment), 

And  ever  shall,  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

And  then,  —  and  then,  —  to  cut  short,  —  this  is  idle, 

These  are  feelings  it  is  not  good  to  foster,  — 

I  pushed  the  gate  wide,  she  shook  the  bridle, 

And  the  palfrey  bounded,  —  and  so  we  lost  her. 

16. 

When  the  liquor's  out  why  clinic  the  cannikin  ? 
I  did  think  to  describe  you  the  panic  in 
The  redoubtable  breast  of  our  master  the  manikin,  790 

And  what  was  the  pitch  of  his  mother's  yellowness, 
How  she  turned  as  a  shark  to  snap  the  spare-rib 
Clean  off,  sailors  say,  from  a  pearl-diving  Carib, 
When  she  heard,  what  she  called  the  flight  of  the  feloness 
—  But  it  seems  such  child's  play, 
What  they  said  and  did  with  the  lady  away  ! 
And  to  dance  on,  when  we've  lost  the  music, 
Always  made  me  —  and  no  doubt  makes  you  —  sick. 
Nay,  to  my  mind,  the  world's  face  looked  so  stern 
As  that  sweet  form  disappeared  through  the  postern,  800 

She  that  kept  it  in  constant  good  humor, 
It  ought  to  have  stopped  ;  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  more. 
But  the  world  thought  otherwise  and  went  on, 

784.  And  then, —  and  then :  his  feelings  overcome  him. 
793.   Carib :  a  Caribbee,  a  native  of  the  Caribbean  islands. 


172 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  my  head's  one  that  its  spite  was  spent  on  : 

Thirty  years  are  fled  since  that  morning, 

And  with  them  all  my  head's  adorning. 

Nor  did  the  old  Duchess  die  outright, 

As  you  expect,  of  suppressed  spite, 

The  natural  end  of  every  adder 

Not  suffered  to  empty  its  poison-bladder  :  810 

But  she  and  her  son  agreed,  I  take  it, 

That  no  one  should  touch  on  the  story  to  wake  it, 

For  the  wound  in  the  Duke's  pride  rankled  fiery  ; 

So,  they  made  no  search  and  small  inquiry  : 

And  when  fresh  gypsies  have  paid  us  a  visit,  I've 

Noticed  the  couple  were  never  inquisitive, 

But  told  them  they're  folks  the  Duke  don't  want  here, 

And  bade  them  make  haste  and  cross  the  frontier. 

Brief,  the  Duchess  was  gone  and  the  Duke  was  glad  of  it, 

And  the  old  one  was  in  tte  young  one's  stead,  820 

And  took,  in  her  place,  tire  household's  head, 

And  a  blessed  time  the  household  had  of  it  ! 

And  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say,  cautious 

How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on  the  nauseous, 

I  could  favor  you  with  sundry  touches 

Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the  Duchess 

Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her  cheek's  yellowness 

(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 

Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 

Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of  ceruse  :  830 

In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to  udder 

Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 


You're  my  friend  — 

What  a  thing  friendship  is,  world  without  end  ! 

How  it  gives  the  heart  and  soul  a  stir-up 

As  if  somebody  broached  you  a  glorious  runlet, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  173 

And  poured  out,  all  lovelily,  sparklingly,  sunlit, 

Our  green  Moldavia,  the  streaky  syrup, 

Cotnar  as  old  as  the  time  of  the  Druids  — 

Friendship  may  match  with  that  monarch  of  fluids ;  840 

Each  supples  a  dry  brain,  fills  you  its  ins-and-outs, 

Gives  your  life's  hour-glass  a  shake  when  the  thin  sand  doubts 

Whether  to  run  on  or  stop  short,  and  guarantees 

Age  is  not  all  made  of  stark  sloth  and  arrant  ease. 

I  have  seen  my  little  lady  once  more, 

Jacynth,  the  gypsy,  Berold,  and  the  rest  of  it, 

For  to  me  spoke  the  Duke,  as  I  told  you  before ; 

I  always  wanted  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it : 

And  now  it  is  made  —  why,  my  heart's  blood,  that  went  trickle, 

Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy  driblets,  850 

Is  pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the  main  ventricle, 

And  genially  floats  me  about  the  giblets. 

I'll  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do  : 

I  must  see  this  fellow  his  sad  life  through  — 

He  is  our  Duke,  after  all, 

And  I,  as  he  says,  but  a  serf  and  thrall. 

My  father  was  born  here,  and  I  inherit 

His  fame,  a  chain  he  bound  his  son  with ; 

Could  I  pay  in  a  lump  I  should  prefer  it, 

But  there's  no  mine  to  blow  up  and  get  done  with  :  860 

So,  I  must  stay  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

For,  as  to  our  middle-age-manners-adapter, 

Be  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  on  or  sorry  on, 

Some  day  or  other,  his  head  in  a  morion 

And  breast  in  a  hauberk,  his  heels  he'll  kick  up, 

Slain  by  an  onslaught  fierce  of  hiccup. 

And  then,  when  red  doth  the  sword  of  our  Duke  rust, 

And  its  leathern  sheath  lie  o'ergrown  with  a  blue  crust, 

Then  I  shall  scrape  together  my  earnings ; 

845.  I  have  seen:  />.,  in  imagination,  while  telling  the  story. 
864.  morion  :  a  sort  of  helmet. 


174 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

For,  you  see,  in  the  churchyard  Jacynth  reposes,  870 

And  our  children  all  went  the  way  of  the  roses  : 

It's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings. 

One  needs  but  little  tackle  to  travel  in ; 

So,  just  one  stout  cloak,  shall  I  indue  : 

And  for  a  staff,  what  beats  the  javelin 

With  which  his  boars  my  father  pinned  you? 

And  then,  for  a  purpose  you  shall  hear  presently, 

Taking  some  Cotnar,  a  tight  plump  skinful, 

I  shall  go  journeying,  who  but  I,  pleasantly  ! 

Sorrow  is  vain  and  despondency  sinful.  880 

What's  a  man's  age  ?    He  must  hurry  more,  that's  all ; 

Cram  in  a  day,  what  his  youth  took  a  year  to  hold  : 

When  we  mind  labor,  then  only,  we're  too  old  — 

What  age  had  Methusalem  when  he  begat  Saul? 

And  at  last,  as  its  haven  some  buffeted  ship  sees 

(Come  all  the  way  from  the  north-parts  with  sperm  oil), 

I  hope  to  get  safely  out  of  the  turmoil 

And  arrive  one  day  at  the  land  of  the  gypsies, 

And  find  my  lady,  or  hear  the  last  news  of  her 

From  some  old  thief  and  son  of  Lucifer,  890 

His  forehead  chapleted  green  with  wreathy  hop, 

Sunburned  all  over  like  an  ^Ethiop. 

And  when  my  Cotnar  begins  to  operate 

And  the  tongue  of  the  rogue  to  run  at  a  proper  rate, 

And  our  wine-skin,  tight  once,  shows  each  flaccid  dent, 

I  shall  drop  in  with  —  as  if  by  accident — 

"  You  never  knew,  then,  how  it  all  ended, 

What  fortune  good  or  bad  attended 

The  little  lady  your  Queen  befriended  ?  " 

—  And  when  that's  told  me,  what's  remaining  ?  900 

This  world's  too  hard  for  my  explaining. 

The  same  wise  judge  of  matters  equine 

Who  still  preferred  some  slim  four-year-old 

884.  What  age  had  Methusalem :  the  old  man  forgets  his  Bible. 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER.  175 

To  the  big-boned  stock  of  mighty  Berold, 

And,  for  strong  Cotnar,  drank  French  weak  wine, 

He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner  ! 

Smooth  Jacob  still  robs  homely  Esau  : 

Now  up,  now  down,  the  world's  one  seesaw. 

—  So,  I  shall  find  out  some  snug  corner 

Under  a  hedge,  like  Orson  the  wood-knight,  9io 

Turn  myself  round  and  bid  the  world  goodnight ; 

And  sleep  a  sound  sleep  till  the  trumpet's  blowing 

Wakes  me  (unless  priests  cheat  us  laymen) 

To  a  world  where  will  be  no  further  throwing 

Pearls  before  swine  that  can't  value  them.    Amen  ! 


THE   LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

i. 

I  SAID  —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be  — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  ! 

906.  He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner :  he  who  is"  such  a  poor 
judge  of  horses  and  wines. 

910.  Orson  the  wood-knight  (Fr.  ourson,  a  small  bear)  :  twin-brother  of  Val- 
entine, and  son  of  Bellisant.  The  brothers  were  born  in  a  wood  near  Orleans,  and 
Orson  was  carried  off  by  a  bear,  which  suckled  him  with  her  cubs.  When  he  grew 
up,  he  became  the  terror  of  France,  and  was  called  "The  Wild  Man  of  the  Forest." 
Ultimately  he  was  reclaimed  by  his  brother  Valentine,  overthrew  the  Green  Knight, 
his  rival  in  love,  and  married  Fezon,  daughter  of  the  duke  of  Savary,  in  Aquitaine. — 
Romance  of  Valentine  and  Orson  (l5th  cent.).  Brewer's  'Reader's  Handbook  '  and 
'Dictionary  of  Phrase  and  Fable! 


I76  THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

Take  back  the  hope  you  gave,  —  I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
—  And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 
Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

2. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers ; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 
With  life  or  death  in  the  balance  :  right ! 

St.  i.  Browning  has  no  moping  melancholy  lovers.  His  lovers  generally  reflect 
his  own  manliness ;  and  when  their  passion  is  unrequited,  they  acknowledge  the 
absolute  value  of  love  to  their  own  souls.  As  Mr.  James  Thomson,  in  his  Notes  on 
the  Genius  of  Robert  Browning,  remarks  (B.  Soc.  Papers,  Part  II.,  p.  246),  "  Brown- 
ing's passion  is  as  intense,  noble,  and  manly  as  his  intellect  is  profound  and  subtle, 
and  therefore  original.  I  would  especially  insist  on  its  manliness,  because  our  pres- 
ent literature  abounds  in  so-called  passion  which  is  but  half-sincere  or  wholly  insin- 
cere sentimentalism,  if  it  be  not  thinly  disguised  prurient  lust,  and  in  so-called 
pathos  which  is  maudlin  to  nauseousness.  The  great  unappreciated  poet  last  cited 
[George  Meredith]  has  defined  passion  as  noble  strength  on  fire ;  and  this  is  the 
true  passion  of  great  natures  and  great  poets ;  while  sentimentalism  is  ignoble 
weakness  dallying  with  fire ;  .  .  .  Browning's  passion  is  of  utter  self-sacrifice,  self- 
annihilation,  self-vindicated  by  its  irresistible  intensity.  So  we  read  it  in  Time's 
Revenges,  so  in  the  scornful  condemnation  of  the  weak  lovers  in  The  Statue  and 
the  Bust,  so  in  In  a  Balcony,  and  Two  in  the  Campagna,  with  its 

" '  Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn.' 

Is  the  love  rejected,  unreturned?  No  weak  and  mean  upbraidings  of  the  beloved, 
no  futile  complaints ;  a  solemn  resignation  to  immitigable  Fate ;  intense  gratitude 
for  inspiring  love  to  the  unloving  beloved.  So  in  A  Serenade  at  the  Villa;  so  in 
One  Way  of  Love,  with  its 

" '  My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 
This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 
And  speak  my  passion.  —  Heaven  or  Hell? 
She  will  not  give  me  Heaven  ?     'Tis  well ! 
Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  say, 
Those  who  win  Heaven,  blest  are  they !  ' 

So  in  The  Last  Ride  Together,  with  its 

"  '  I  said —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so,"  "  etc. 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

The  blood  replenished  me  again ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain  : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side, 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ? 

3- 

Hush  !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 
All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 
By  many  benedictions — sun's 
And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once  — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here  !  — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

4- 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

5- 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds  ? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds? 


1/7 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

We  rode  ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought,  —  All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me  :  here  we  ride. 

6. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshy  screen  ? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each  ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing  !  what  atones? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

7- 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much  :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best  for  men  ? 
Are  you  —  poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time  — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  have  never  turned  a  rhyme  ? 

Sing,  riding's  a  joy  !     For  me,  I  ride. 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

8. 

And  you,  great  sculptor  —  so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine  ? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end  !  " 

I  gave  my  youth ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

9- 

Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us  ?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being  —  had  I  signed  the  bond  — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?    Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best  ? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

10. 

And  yet  —  she  has  not  spoke  so  long  ! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 
We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 


179 


180  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity,  — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 
Ride,  ride  together, forever  ride? 


BY  THE   FIRESIDE. 

i. 
How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 

When  the  long  dark  autumn  evenings  come ; 
And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue  ? 
With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices,  dumb 
In  life's  November  too  ! 

2. 
I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 

O'er  a  great  wise  book,  as  beseemeth  age ; 
While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross-wind  blows, 

And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page, 
Not  verse  now,  only  prose  ! 

3- 
Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 

"  There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek : 
Now  then,  or  never,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 
A  mainmast  for  our  ship  !  " 

4- 

I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends  ! 
Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 

St.  I,  v.  3.  is :  present  used  for  the  future,  shall  then  be. 

St.  2.  Not  verse  now,  only  prose  :  he  shall  have  reached  the  "years which 
bring  the  philosophic  mind." 

St.  4.  Greek  puts  already  such  a  branch-work  forth  as  will  soon  extend  to  a  vista 
opening  far  and  wide,  and  he  will  pass  out  where  it  ends  and  retrace  the  paths  he 
has  trod  through  life's  pleasant  wood. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  jgi 

Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  extends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 

5- 
The  outside  frame,  like  your  hazel-trees  — 

But  the  inside -archway  widens  fast, 
And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 

And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 
And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 

6. 

I  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand  : 
Oh  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-lands, 
Laid  to  their  hearts  instead  ! 

7- 
Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 

Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge  ! 
Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 

Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron  forge 
Breaks  solitude  in  vain? 

8. 
A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things ; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 
.  The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings  ! 

St.  5,  6.  He  will  pass  first  through  his  childhood,  in  England,  represented  by  the 
hazels,  and  on,  by  green  degrees,  to  youth  and  Italy,  where,  knowing  so  well  the 
leader's  hand,  and  assured  as  to  whither  she  will  conduct  him,  he  will  follow  wher- 
ever he  is  led. 

St.  7.   Look  :  to  be  construed  with  "  follow." 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

9- 

Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below  ? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella  ;  see,  in  the  evening-glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow  ! 

10. 

On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock  ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  bowlder-stones,  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

ii. 

Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain-  flowers, 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers  ! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit's  begun, 

These  early  November  hours, 

12. 

That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 

O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-  cupped 

Elf-needled  mat  of  moss, 


By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening  —  nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-colored  flaky  crew 

Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

14. 

And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge, 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 


The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 

Blackish-gray  and  mostly  wet  ; 
Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dike. 

See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 
And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike  ! 

16. 
Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams  — 


To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dressers'  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 

18. 
It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 

With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon-wise 
Set  over  the  porch,  Art's  early  wont  : 

'Tis  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise, 
But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt  — 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

19. 
Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder,  though, 

For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 
Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 

Dating  —  good  thought  of  our  architect's  — 
'Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 

20. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times ; 

The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 

But  that  is  its  own  affair. 

21. 
My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 

Oh  heart,  my  own,  Oh  eyes,  mine  too, 
Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 

With  whom  beside  should  I  dare  pursue 
The  path  gray  heads  abhor? 

22. 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them ; 
Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops  — 

St.  20.  aware :  self-conscious. 

".  .  .  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 
Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been, 

There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone." 

—  Hood's  Sonnet  on  Silence. 

St.  21.  He  digresses  here,  and  does  not  return  to  the  subject  till  the  315!  stanza, 
"What  did  I  say?— that  a  small  bird  sings."  The  path  gray  heads  abhor: 
this  verse  and  the  following  stanza  are,  with  most  readers,  the  crux  of  the  poem  ; 
"gray  heads"  must  be  understood  with  some  restriction:  many  gray  heads,  not  all, 
abhor  —  gray  heads  who  went  along  through  their  flowery  youth  as  if  it  had  no  limit, 
and  without  insuring,  in  Love's  true  season,  the  happiness  of  their  lives  beyond 
youth's  limit, "  life's  safe  hem,"  which  to  cross  without  such  insurance,  is  often  fatal. 
And  these,  when  they  reach  old  age,  shun  retracing  the  path  which  led  to  the  gulf 
wherein  their  youth  dropped. 


BY  THE  FIRES  WE.  ^5 

Not  they ;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  our  life's  safe  hem  ! 

23- 
With  me,  youth  led  ...  I  will  speak  now, 

No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 
Reading  by  firelight,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Mutely,  my  heart  knows  how  — 

24. 
When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 

You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme ; 
And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 

Response  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time, 
Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff. 

25- 
My  own,  confirm  me  !     If  I  tread 

This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 
To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 

To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side, 
Youth  seems  the  waste  instead? 

26. 
My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct ! 

At  first,  'twas  something  our  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do  ;  each  is  sucked 

In  each  now  :  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 

St.  23.  With  me,  the  speaker  continues,  youth  led  —  we  are  told  whither,  in 
St.  25,  v.  4,  "  to  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side,  youth  seems  the  waste  instead." 
I  will  speak  now  :  up  to  this  point  his  reflections  have  been  silent,  his  wife,  the 
while,  reading,  mutely,  by  fire-light,  his  heart  knows  how,  that  is,  with  her  heart 
secretly  responsive  to  his  own,  The  mutual  responsiveness  of  their  hearts  is 
expressed  in  St.  24. 


!86  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

27. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 
The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new, 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands, 

How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 
In  the  house  not  made  with  hands? 

28. 
Oh  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine  ! 

29. 
But  who  could  have  expected  this 

When  we  two  drew  together  first 
Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 

To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 
With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss? 

SO- 
Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 

Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 
Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 

Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 
And  gather  what  we  let  fall ! 

3i- 

What  did  I  say?  —  that  a  small  bird  sings 

All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 
Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 

St.  28.  "  The  conviction  of  the  eternity  of  marriage  meets  us  again  and  again  in 
Browning's  poems  ;  e.g.,  Prospice,  Any  Wife  to  any  Husband,  The  Epilogue  to  Fifine." 
The  union  between  two  complementary  souls  cannot  be  dissolved.  "  Love  is  all, 
and  Death  is  nought !  " 

St.  31.   Here  he  returns  to  the  subject  broken  off  at  St.  21. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  187 

Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  noonday  glare 
You  count  the  streaks  and  rings. 

32- 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 

'Tis  better ;  then  the  silence  grows 
To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 

It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 
Its  bosom  does  so  heave. 

33- 
Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side, 

Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak, 
Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

34- 
Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 

And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 
And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 
And  wonder  at  the  moss. 

35- 
Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 

Ix>ok  through  the  window's  grated  square  : 
Nothing  to  see  !     For  fear  of  plunder, 

The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare, 
As  if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder. 

36. 
We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 
Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date  ; 

Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 
Take  the  path  again  —  but  wait ! 


1 88  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

37- 

Oh  moment  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone ; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright : 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown  — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite  ! 

38. 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well : 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

39- 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  ! 


St.  37,  38.  "  Mr.  Browning's  most  characteristic  feeling  for  nature  appears  in  his 
rendering  of  those  aspects  of  sky,  or  earth,  or  sea,  of  sunset,  or  noonday,  or  dawn, 
which  seem  to  acquire  some  sudden  and  passionate  significance ;  which  seem  to  be 
charged  with  some  spiritual  secret  eager  for  disclosure ;  in  his  rendering  of  those 
moments  which  betray  the  passion  at  the  heart  of  things,  which  thrill  and  tingle 
with  prophetic  fire.  When  lightning  searches  for  the  guilty  lovers,  Ottima  and 
Sebald  [in  Pippa  Passes] ,  like  an  angelic  sword  plunged  into  the  gloom,  when  the 
tender  twilight  with  its  one  chrysolite  star,  grows  aware,  and  the  light  and  shade 
make  up  a  spell,  and  the  forests  by  their  mystery,  and  sound,  and  silence,  mingle 
together  two  human  lives  forever  [By  the  Fireside} ,  when  the  apparition  of  the 
moon-rainbow  appears  gloriously  after  storm,  and  Christ  is  in  his  heaven  [Christ- 
mas Eve],  when  to  David  the  stars  shoot  out  the  pain  of  pent  knowledge  and  in 
the  grey  of  the  hills  at  morning  there  dwells  a  gathered  intensity  [Saul],  —  then 
nature  rises  from  her  sweet  ways  of  use  and  wont,  and  shows  herself  the  Priestess, 
the  Pythoness,  the  Divinity  which  she  is.  Or  rather,  through  nature,  the  Spirit  of 
God  addresses  itself  to  the  spirit  of  man,"  —  Edward  Dowden. 


BY  THE  FIRES  WE.  189 

40. 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 

So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her : 
I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between, 

And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 
Friends  —  lovers  that  might  have  been. 

41. 

For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland  time, 

Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 
Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer-prime, 

But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test ! 
"  Hold  the  last  fast ! "  runs  the  rhyme. 

42. 

For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 

When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can  mend  : 
But  a  last  leaf —  fear  to  touch  ! 

43- 
Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 

Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 
At  some  slight  wind  —  best  chance  of  all ! 

Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 
You  trembled  to  forestall ! 

44. 

Worth  how  well,  those  dark  gray  eyes, 

That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 
That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 

And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 
For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize  ! 


1 90  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

45- 
You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 

Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 
And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 

His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 
Yet  end  as  he  began. 

46. 

But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are, 

And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 
If  two  lives  join,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 

They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third ; 
One  near  one  is  too  far. 

47- 
A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast ; 
But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 

Life  and  life  :  we  were  mixed  at  last 
In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

48. 

The  forests  had  done  it  j  there  they  stood ; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play : 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  good, 

Their  work  was  done  —  we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

49. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us  ! 
How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

St.  49.  "  Those  periods  of  life  which  appear  most  full  of  moral  purpose  to  Mr. 
Tennyson,  are  periods  of  protracted  self-control,  and  those  moments  stand  eminent 
in  life  in  which  the  spirit  has  struggled  victoriously  in  the  cause  of  conscience 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

When  a  soul  declares  itself —  to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does  ! 

50. 

Be  hate  that  fruit,  or  love  that  fruit, 
It  forwards  the  general  deed  of  man, 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan ; 

Each  living  his  own,  to  boot. 


I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat ; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree ; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete, 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me  — 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet ! 

52- 
And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  ! 


against  impulse  and  desire.  With  Mr.  Browning  the  moments  are  most  glorious 
in  which  the  obscure  tendency  of  many  years  has  been  revealed  by  the  lightning  of 
sudden  passion,  or  in  which  a  resolution  that  changes  the  current  of  life  has  been 
taken  in  reliance  upon  that  insight  which  vivid  emotion  bestows ;  and  those  periods 
of  our  history  are  charged  most  fully  with  moral  purpose,  which  take  their  direction 
from  moments  such  as  these.  ...  In  such  a  moment  the  somewhat  dull  youth  of 
The  Inn  Album  rises  into  the  justiciary  of  the  Highest ;  in  such  a  moment  Po- 
lyxena  with  her  right  woman's-manliness,  discovers  to  Charles  his  regal  duty,  and 
infuses  into  her  weaker  husband,  her  own  courage  of  heart  [King  Victor  and  A'tni? 
Charles]  ;  and  rejoicing  in  the  remembrance  of  a  moment  of  high  devotion  which 
determined  the  issues  of  a  life,  the  speaker  of  liy  the  Fireside  exclaims,  —  'How 
the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us ! '  "  etc.  —  Edward  Dowden. 


1 92  PROSPICE. 

53- 
So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the  more, 

And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain  too 
And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 

When  autumn  comes :  which  I  mean  to  do 
One  day,  as  I  said  before. 


PROSPICE. 

FEAR  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe  • 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall,  10 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness,  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

Prospice  (look  forward)  is  a  challenge  to  spiritual  conflict,  exultant  with  the 
certainty  of  victory,  glowing  with  the  prospective  joy  of  reunion  with  one  whom 
death  has  sent  before.  —  Mrs.  Orr. 


193 


AMPHIBIAN. 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


AMPHIBIAN. 

i. 

THE  fancy  I  had  to-day, 

Fancy  which  turned  a  fear  ! 
I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 

Since  waves  laughed  warm  and  clear. 

2. 
I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun, 

The  noon-sun  looked  at  me  : 
Between  us  two,  no  one 

Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 

3- 
Yes  !     There  came  floating  by 

Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 
Such  a  strange  butterfly  ! 

Creature  as  dear  as  new  : 

4- 
Because  the  membraned  wings 

So  wonderful,  so  wide, 
So  sun-suffused,  were  things 

Like  soul  and  naught  beside. 

25.  first  a  peace  out  of  pain :  original  reading,  "  first  a  peace,  then  a  joy.' 


AMPHIBIAN. 

5- 
A  handbreadth  over  head  ! 

All  of  the  sea  my  own, 
It  owned  the  sky  instead ; 

Both  of  us  were  alone. 

6. 

I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 
For  naught  buoys  flesh  in  air. 

If  it  touch  the  sea  —  goodnight ! 
Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 

7- 
Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 

For  watching  the  uncouth  play 
Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 

Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay? 

8. 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well 
With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 

Of  the  land  once.    Who  can  tell  ? 

9- 

What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

10. 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say? 


AMPHIBIAN.  195 

ii. 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 

Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 
To  free  one's  self  of  tether, 

And  try  a  life  exempt 

12. 

From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 

In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 
With  passion  and  thought,  —  why,  just 

Unable  to  fly,  one  swims  ! 


By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 

One  smiles  to  one's  self  —  "  They  fare 

Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air  !  " 

14. 

Emancipate  through  passion 
And  thought,  with,  sea  for  sky, 

We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 
For  heaven  —  poetry  : 

15- 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 

Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 

As  a  finer  element 
Affords  the  spirit-sort. 

16. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem  : 
Imagine  the  thing  they  know  ; 

St.  14.  for  :  instead  of. 


AMPHIBIAN'. 

All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream ; 
Can  heaven  be  else  but  so  ? 


And  meantime,  yonder  streak 
Meets  the  horizon's  verge ; 

That  is  the  land,  to  seek 
If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge  : 

18.       . 

Land  the  solid  and  safe — 
To  welcome  again  (confess  !) 

When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 
The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

19. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 
At  one  who  mimics  flight, 

Swims  —  heaven  above,  sea  under, 
Yet  always  earth  in  sight  ? 


St.  17.  We  can  return  from  the  sea  of  passion  and  thought,  that  is,  poetry,  or  a 
deep  spiritual  state,  to  the  solid  land  again,  of  material  fact. 

St.  18.  Man,  in  his  earth  life,  cannot  always  be  "high  contemplative,"  and  in- 
dulge in  "brave  translunary  things";  he  must  welcome  again,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, "  land  the  solid  and  safe."  "  Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing " 
(One  Word  Mori). 

St.  19.  does  she :  the  "  certain  soul "  in  gth  St,  "  which  early  slipped  its 
sheath." 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE, 

I.    JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE  SPEAKS  AT  THE  WINDOW. 
i. 

AH,  Love,  but  a  day, 

And  the  world  has  changed  ! 
The  sun's  away, 

And  the  bird  estranged ; 
The  wind  has  dropped, 

And  the  sky's  deranged  : 
Summer  has  stopped. 

2. 

Look  in  my  eyes  ! 

Wilt  thou  change  too  ? 
Should  I  fear  surprise  ? 

Shall  I  find  aught  new 
In  the  old  and  dear, 

In  the  good  and  true, 
With  the  changing  year? 

3- 
Thou  art  a  man, 

But  I  am  thy  love. 
For  the  lake,  its  swan ; 

For  the  dell,  its  dove ; 
And  for  thee  —  (oh,  haste  !) 

Me,  to  bend  above, 
Me,  to  hold  embraced. 

In  the  original  ed.,  1864,  the  heading  to  this  section  was  At  the  Window; 
changed  in  ed.  of  1868. 

St.  i.  Ah,  Love,  but  a  day :  Rev.  H.  J.  Bulkeley,  in  his  paper  on  James 
Lee's  Wife  ('  Browning  Soc.  Papers,'  iv.,  p.  457),  explains,  "  One  day's  absence  from 
him  has  caused  the  world  to  change."  It's  better  to  understand  that  something 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE, 

II.    BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

i. 

Is  all  our  fire  of  shipwreck  wood, 

Oak  and  pine  ? 
Oh,  for  the  ills  half-understood, 

The  dim  dead  woe 

Long  ago 

Befallen  this  bitter  coast  of  France  ! 
Well,  poor  sailors  took  their  chance ; 

I  take  mine. 

2. 
A  ruddy  shaft  our  fire  must  shoot 

O'er  the  sea ; 
Do  sailors  eye  the  casement  —  mute 

Drenched  and  stark, 

From  their  bark  — 
And  envy,  gnash  their  teeth  for  hate 
O'  the  warm  safe  house  and  happy  freight 

—  Thee  and  me  ? 

3- 

God  help  you,  sailors,  at  your  need  ! 

Spare  the  curse  ! 
For  some  ships,  safe  in  port  indeed, 

Rot  and  rust, 

Run  to  dust, 

All  through  worms  i'  the  wood,  which  crept, 
Gnawed  our  hearts  out  while  we  slept : 

That  is  worse. 


Tias  occurred  to  cause  the  world  to  change  in  a  single  day ;  that  James  Lee  has 
made  some  new  revelation  of  himself,  which  causes  the  wife's  heart  to  have  mis- 
givings, and  with  these  misgivings  comes  the  eager  desire  expressed  in  St.  3,  to 
show  her  love,  when  he  returns,  more  strongly  than  ever. 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

4- 
Who  lived  here  before  us  two  ? 

Old-world  pairs. 
Did  a  woman  ever — would  I  knew  !  — 

Watch  the  man 

With  whom  began 

Love's  voyage  full-sail,  —  (now,  gnash  your  teeth  !) 
When  planks  start,  open  hell  beneath 

Unawares  ? 

III.    IN  THE  DOORWAY. 

i. 

THE  swallow  has  set  her  six  young  on  the  rail, 

And  looks  seaward : 
The  water's  in  stripes  like  a  snake,  olive-pale 

To  the  leeward,  — 

On  the  weather-side,  black,  spotted  white  with  the  wind. 
"  Good  fortune  departs,  and  disaster's  behind,"  — 
Hark,  the  wind  with  its  wants  and  its  infinite  wail ! 

2. 
Our  fig-tree,  that  leaned  for  the  saltness,  has  furled 

Her  five  fingers, 
Each  leaf  like  a  hand  opened  wide  to  the  world 

Where  there  lingers 

No  glint  of  the  gold,  Summer  sent  for  her  sake  : 
How  the  vines  writhe  in  rows,  each  impaled  on  its  stake  ! 
My  heart  shrivels  up  and  my  spirit  shrinks  curled. 

3- 

Yet  here  are  we  two ;  we  have  love,  house  enough, 
With  the  field  there, 

St.  i.  Note  the  truth  of  color  in  vv.  3-5. 

St.  2.  her  five  fingers:  referring  to  the  shape  of  the  fig-leaf. 


200  JAMES  LEE^S  WIFE. 

This  house  of  four  rooms,  that  field  red  and  rough, 

Though  it  yield  there, 

For  the  rabbit  that  robs,  scarce  a  blade  or  a  bent ; 
If  a  magpie  alight  now,  it  seems  an  event ; 
And  they  both  will  be  gone  at  November's  rebuff. 

4- 
But  why  must  cold  spread  ?  but  wherefore  bring  change 

To  the  spirit, 
God  meant  should  mate  his  with  an  infinite  range, 

And  inherit 

His  power  to  put  life  in  the  darkness  and  cold  ? 
Oh,  live  and  love  worthily,  bear  and  be  bold  ! 
Whom  Summer  made  friends  of,  let  Winter  estrange  ! 

IV.    ALONG  THE  BEACH. 
i. 

I  WILL  be  quiet  and  talk  with  you, 

And  reason  why  you  are  wrong. 
You  wanted  my  love  —  is  that  much  true  ? 
And  so  I  did  love,  so  I  do : 

What  has  come  of  it  all  along  ? 

2. 
I  took  you  —  how  could  I  otherwise  ? 

For  a  world  to  me,  and  more ; 
For  all,  love  greatens  and  glorifies 
Till  God's  a-glow,  to  the  loving  eyes, 

In  what  was  mere  earth  before. 

St.  3.  a  bent :  a  bit  of  coarse  grass ;  A.-S.  beonet,  an  adduced  form ;  Ger. 
binse. 

St.  4.  Whom  Summer  made  frleuds  of,  etc.:  />.,  let  Winter  (Adversity) 
estrange  those  whom  Summer  (Prosperity)  made  friends  of,  but  let  it  not  estrange 
us. 

St.  2.  love  greatens  &n4  glorifies :  see  the  poem,  "  Wanting  is— what? '' 


JAMES  LEE^S  WIFE.  2OI 

3- 

Yes,  earth  —  yes,  mere  ignoble  earth  ! 

Now  do  I  misstate,  mistake  ? 
Do  I  wrong  your  weakness  and  call  it  worth  ? 
Expect  all  harvest,  dread  no  dearth, 

Seal  my  sense  up  for  your  sake  ? 

4- 
Oh  Love,  Love,  no,  Love  !  not  so,  indeed 

You  were  just  weak  earth,  I  knew  : 
With  much  in  you  waste,  with  many  a  weed, 
And  plenty  of  passions  run  to  seed, 

But  a  little  good  grain  too. 

5- 
And  such  as  you  were,  I  took  you  for  mine : 

Did  not  you  find  me  yours, 
To  watch  the  olive  and  wait  the  vine, 
And  wonder  when  rivers  of  oil  and  wine 

Would  flow,  as  the  Book  assures  ? 

6. 
Well,  and  if  none  of  these  good  things  came, 

What  did  the  failure  prove  ? 
The  man  was  my  whole  world,  all  the  same, 
With  his  flowers  to  praise  or  his  weeds  to  blame, 

And,  either  or  both,  to  love. 

7- 

Yet  this  turns  now  to  a  fault  —  there  !  there  ! 
That  I  do  love,  watch  too  long, 

81.5.  yours,  to  watch  the  olive  and  -wait  the  vine:  "olive"  and 
"  vine  "  are  used  metaphorically  for  the  capabilities  of  her  husband's  nature. 

St.  6.  The  failure  of  fruit  in  her  husband  proved  the  absoluteness  of  her  love, 
proved  that  he  was  her  all,  notwithstanding. 

St.  7.  Yet  this  turns  now  to  a  fault :  i.e.,  her  watching  the  olive  and 
waiting  the  vine  of  his  nature,  there  I  there  !  I've  come  out  plainly  with  the  fact. 


202  JAMES  LEE^S  WIFE, 

And  wait  too  well,  and  weary  and  wear ; 
And  'tis  all  an  old  story,  and  my  despair 
Fit  subject  for  some  new  song : 

8. 
"  How  the  light,  light  love,  he  has  wings  to  fly 

At  suspicion  of  a  bond  : 

My  wisdom  has  bidden  your  pleasure  good-bye, 
Which  will  turn  up  next  in  a  laughing  eye, 

And  why  should  you  look  beyond?  " 


V.    ON  THE  CLIFF. 

i. 

I  LEANED  on  the  turf, 

I  looked  at  a  rock 

Left  dry  by  the  surf; 

For  the  turf,  to  call  it  grass  were  to  mock : 

Dead  to  the  roots,  so  deep  was  done 

The  work  of  the  summer  sun. 

2. 

And  the  rock  lay  flat 

As  an  anvil's  face  : 

No  iron  like  that ! 

Baked  dry ;  of  a  weed,  of  a  shell,  no  trace : 

Sunshine  outside,  but  ice  at  the  core, 

Death's  altar  by  the  lone  shore. 

3- 

On  the  turf,  sprang  gay 
With  his  films  of  blue, 

St.  8.  bond :  refers  to  what  is  said  in  St.  7 ;  why  should  you  look  beyond  ? 
i.e.,  beyond  a  laughing  eye,  which  does  not  "  watch  "  and  "  wait,"  and  thus  "  weary  " 
and  "  wear." 


JAMES  LEE^S  WIFE.  203 

No  cricket,  I'll  say, 

But  a  warhorse,  barded  and  chanfroned  too, 
The  gift  of  a  quixote-mage  to  his  knight, 
Real  fairy,  with  wings  all  right. 

4- 

On  the  rock,  they  scorch 
Like  a  drop  of  fire 
From  a  brandished  torch, 
Fall  two  red  fans  of  a  butterfly  : 
No  turf,  no  rock,  —  in  their  ugly  stead, 
See,  wonderful  blue  and  red  ! 

5- 

Is  it  not  so 

With  the  minds  of  men  ? 
The  level  and  low, 

The  burnt  and  bare,  in  themselves ;  but  then 
With  such  a  blue  and  red  grace,  not  theirs, 
Love  settling  unawares  ! 


VI.     READING  A  BOOK  UNDER  THE  CLIFF. 

i. 

"  STILL  ailing,  Wind  ?    Wilt  be  appeased  or  no  ? 

Which  needs  the  other's  office,  thou  or  I  ? 
Dost  want  to  be  disburthened  of  a  woe, 

St.  3.  No  cricket,  I'll  say,  but  to  my  lively  admiration,  a  warhorse, 
barded  and  chanfroned  too  :  see  Webster's  Diet.,  s.v.  "  chamfrain." 

St  4.  they :  i.e.,  the  two  red  fans,  no  turf,  no  rock :  i.e.,  the  eye  is  taken 
up  entirely  with  cricket  and  butterfly ;  blue  and  red  refer  respectively  to  cricket  and 
butterfly. 

St.  5.  Love,  settling  on  the  minds  of  men,  the  level  and  low,  the  burnt  and 
bare,  is  compared  to  the  cricket  and  the  butterfly  settling  on  the  turf  and  the  rock. 

VI.  In  the  original  ed.,  1864,  the  heading  to  this  section  was  Under  the  Cliff; 
changed  in  ed.  of  1868. 

St.  1-6.  See  foot-note  to  the  Argument  of  this  section. 


204  JAMES  LEE^S  WIFE. 

And  can,  in  truth,  my  voice  untie 
Its  links,  and  let  it  go  ? 

2. 
"  Art  thou  a  dumb,  wronged  thing  that  would  be  righted, 

Entrusting  thus  thy  cause  to  me  ?    Forbear  ! 
No  tongue  can  mend  such  pleadings ;  faith,  requited 

With  falsehood,  —  love,  at  last  aware 
Of  scorn,  —  hopes,  early  blighted,  — 

3- 
"  We  have  them ;  but  I  know  not  any  tone 

So  fit  as  thine  to  falter  forth  a  sorrow : 
Dost  think  men  would  go  mad  without  a  moan, 

If  they  knew  any  way  to  borrow 
A  pathos  like  thy  own  ? 

4- 
"  Which  sigh  wouldst  mock,  of  all  the  sighs  ?    The  one 

So  long  escaping  from  lips  starved  and  blue, 
That  lasts  while  on  her  pallet-bed  the  nun 

Stretches  her  length ;  her  foot  comes  through 
The  straw  she  shivers  on ; 

5- 
"  You  had  not  thought  she  was  so  tall :  and  spent, 

Her  shrunk  lids  open,  her  lean  fingers  shut 
Close,  close,  then-  sharp  and  livid  nails  indent 

The  clammy  palm  ;  then  all  is  mute  : 
That  way,  the  spirit  went. 

6. 

"  Or  wouldst  thou  rather  that  I  understand 

Thy  will  to  help  me  ?  —  like  the  dog  I  found 

Once,  pacing  sad  this  solitary  strand, 

Who  would  not  take  my  food,  poor  hound, 

But  whined,  and  licked  my  hand." 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  2Q$ 

7- 
All  this,  and  more,  comes  from  some  young  man's  pride 

Of  power  to  see,  —  in  failure  and  mistake, 
Relinquishment,  disgrace,  on  every  side,  — 

Merely  examples  for  his  sake, 
Helps  to  his  path  untried  : 


Instances  he  must  —  simply  recognize  ? 

Oh,  more  than  so  !  —  must,  with  a  learner's  zeal, 
Make  doubly  prominent,  twice  emphasize, 

By  added  touches  that  reveal 
The  god  in  babe's  disguise. 

9- 

Oh,  he  knows  what  defeat  means,  and  the  rest ! 

Himself  the  undefeated  that  shall  be  : 
Failure,  disgrace,  he  flings  them  you  to  test,  — 

His  triumph,  in  eternity 
Too  plainly  manifest ! 

i 
10. 

Whence,  judge  if  he  learn  forthwith  what  the  wind 
Means  in  its  moaning  —  by  the  happy  prompt 

Instinctive  way  of  youth,  I  mean ;  for  kind 
Calm  years,  exacting  their  accompt 

Of  pain,  mature  the  mind  : 

n. 

And  some  midsummer  morning,  at  the  lull 
Just  about  daybreak,  as  he  looks  across 

St.  7-9.  She  reflects,  ironically  and  sarcastically,  upon  the  confidence  of  the 
young  poet,  resulting  from  his  immaturity,  in  his  future  triumph  over  all  obstacles. 
Inexperienced  as  he  is,  he  feels  himself  the  god  in  babe's  disguise,  etc.  He  will 
learn  after  a  while  what  the  wind  means  in  its  moaning.  The  train  of  thought  in 
St.  11-16  is  presented  in  the  Argument. 


206  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE, 

A  sparkling  foreign  country,  wonderful 

To  the  sea's  edge  for  gloom  and  gloss, 
Next  minute  must  annul,  — 

12. 

Then,  when  the  wind  begins  among  the  vines, 

So  low,  so  low,  what  shall  it  say  but  this  ? 
"Here  is  the  change  beginning,  here  the  lines 
Circumscribe  beauty,  set  to  bliss 

The  limit  time  assigns." 

J3- 
Nothing  can  be  as  it  has  been  before ; 

Better,  so  call  it,  only  not  the  same. 
To  draw  one  beauty  into  our  hearts'  core, 

And  keep  it  changeless  !  such  our  claim ; 
So  answered,  —  Never  more  ! 

14. 
Simple  ?    Why  this  is  the  old  woe  o'  the  world ; 

Tune,  to  whose  rise  and  fall  we  live  and  die. 
Rise  with  it,  then  !     Rejoice  that  man  is  hurled 

From  change  to  change  unceasingly, 
His  soul's  wings  never  furled  ! 

15- 
That's  a  new  question ;  still  replies  the  fact, 

Nothing  endures  :  the  wind  moans,  saying  so ; 
We  moan  in  acquiescence  :  there's  life's  pact, 

Perhaps  probation  —  do  /  know  ? 
God  does  :  endure  his  act ! 

16. 
Only,  for  man,  how  bitter  not  to  grave 

On  his  soul's  hands'  palms  one  fair  good  wise  thing 
Just  as  he  grasped  it !     For  himself,  death's  wave ; 

While  time  first  washes  —  ah,  the  sting  !  — 
O'er  all  he'd  sink  to  save. 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  207 

VII.    AMONG  THE  ROCKS. 

i. 

OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !     How  he  sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth ; 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 


2. 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true ; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you : 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes  ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above  ! 


VIII.    BESIDE  THE  DRAWING-BOARD. 

i. 

"As  like  as  a  Hand  to  another  Hand  !  " 

Whoever  said  that  foolish  thing, 
Could  not  have  studied  to  understand 
The  counsels  of  God  in  fashioning, 
Out  of  the  infinite  love  of  his  heart, 
This  Hand,  whose  beauty  I  praise,  apart 
From  the  world  of  wonder  left  to  praise, 
If  I  tried  to  learn  the  other  ways 
Of  love,  in  its  skill,  or  love,  in  its  power. 
"As  like  as  a  Hand  to  another  Hand  :  " 
Who  said  that,  never  took  his  stand, 
Found  and  followed,  like  me,  an  hour, 


208  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

The  beauty  in  this,  —  how  free,  how  fine 

To  fear,  almost,  —  of  the  limit-line  ! 

As  I  looked  at  this,  and  learned  and  drew, 

Drew  and  learned,  and  looked  again, 
While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 

Its  beauty  mounted  into  my  brain, 

And  a  fancy  seized  me  ;  I  was  fain 

To  efface  my  work,  begin  anew,  20 

Kiss  what  before  I  only  drew ; 
Ay,  laying  the  red  chalk  'twixt  my  lips, 

With  soul  to  help  if  the  mere  lips  failed, 

I  kissed  all  right  where  the  drawing  ailed, 
Kissed  fast  the  grace  that  somehow  slips 
Still  from  one's  soulless  finger-tips. 

2. 
Tis  a  clay  cast,  the  perfect  thing, 

From  Hand  live  once,  dead  long  ago : 
Princess-like  it  wears  the  ring 

To  fancy's  eye,  by  which  we  know  3o 

That  here  at  length  a  master  found 

His  match,  a  proud  lone  soul  its  mate, 
As  soaring  genius  sank  to  ground 

And  pencil  could  not  emulate 
The  beauty  in  this,  —  how  free,  how  fine 
To  fear  almost !  —  of  the  limit-line. 
Long  ago  the  god,  like  me 
The  worm,  learned,  each  in  our  degree  : 
Looked  and  loved,  learned  and  drew, 

Drew  and  learned  and  loved  again,  4o 

While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 

Till  beauty  mounted  into  his  brain 
And  on  the  finger  which  outvied 

27-87  were  added  in  the  edition  of  1868 ;  they  clear  up  the  obscurity  of  this 
section  of  the  poem,  as  it  stood  in  the  original  edition  of  1864. 


JAMES  LEE-'S  WIFE.  209 

His  art  he  placed  the  ring  that's  there, 
Still  by  fancy's  eye  descried, 

In  token  of  a  marriage  rare  : 
For  him  on  earth,  his  art's  despair, 
For  him  in  heaven,  his  soul's  fit  bride. 

3- 

Little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand 

I  turned  from  to  a  cold  clay  cast  —  50 

I  have  my  lesson,  understand 

The  worth  of  flesh  and  blood  at  last ! 
Nothing  but  beauty  in  a  Hand  ? 

Because  he  could  not  change  the  hue, 

Mend  the  lines  and  make  them  true 
To  this  which  met  his  soul's  demand,  — 

Would  Da  Vinci  turn  from  you  ? 
I  hear  him  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn  — 
"The  fool  forsooth  is  all  forlorn 

Because  the  beauty,  she  thinks  best,  &> 

Lived  long  ago  or  was  never  born,  — 
Because  no  beauty  bears  the  test 
In  this  rough  peasant  Hand  !     Confessed 
'  Art  is  null  and  study  void  ! ' 
So  sayest  thou  ?    So  said  not  I, 
Who  threw  the  faulty  pencil  by, 
And  years  instead  of  hours  employed, 
Learning  the  veritable  use 
Of  flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  beneath 
Lines  and  hue  of  the  outer  sheath,  70 

If  haply  I  might  reproduce 
One  motive  of  the  mechanism, 
Flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  that  make 
The  poorest  coarsest  human  hand 
An  object  worthy  to  be  scanned 
A  whole  life  long  for  their  sole  sake. 


2io  JAMES  LEE^S  WIFE. 

Shall  earth  and  the  cramped  moment-space 

Yield  the  heavenly  crowning  grace  ? 

Now  the  parts  and  then  the  whole  ! 

Who  art  thou,  with  stinted  soul  80 

And  stunted  body,  thus  to  cry 

'  I  love,  —  shall  that  be  life's  strait  dole  ? 

I  must  live  beloved  or  die  ! ' 

This  peasant  hand  that  spins  the  wool 

And  bakes  the  bread,  why  lives  it  on, 

Poor  and  coarse  with  beauty  gone,  — 

What  use  survives  the  beauty  ?    ^ool !  " 

Go,  little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand  ! 
I  have  my  lesson,  shall  understand. 


IX.   ON  DECK. 

i. 

THERE  is  nothing  to  remember  in  me, 

Nothing  I  ever  said  with  a  grace, 
Nothing  I  did  that  you  care  to  see, 

Nothing  I  was  that  deserves  a  place 
In  your  mind,  now  I  leave  you,  set  you  free. 

2. 
Conceded  !     In  turn,  concede  to  me, 

Such  things  have  been  as  a  mutual  flame. 
Your  soul's  locked  fast ;  but,  love  for  a  key, 

You  might  let  it  loose,  till  I  grew  the  same 
In  your  eyes,  as  in  mine  you  stand  :  strange  plea  ! 

3- 

For  then,  then,  what  would  it  matter  to  me 
That  I  was  the  harsh,  ill-favored  one? 

St.  i.  Nothing  I  did  that  you  care  to  see  :  refers  to  her  art-work. 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE.  211 

We  both  should  be  like  as  pea  and  pea ; 
It  was  ever  so  since  the  world  begun : 
So,  let  me  proceed  with  my  reverie. 

4- 
How  strange  it  were  if  you  had  all  me, 

As  I  have  all  you  in  my  heart  and  brain, 
You,  whose  least  word  brought  gloom  or  glee, 

Who  never  lifted  the  hand  in  vain 
Will  hold  mine  yet,  from  over  the  sea  ! 

5- 
Strange,  if  a  face,  when  you  thought  of  me, 

Rose  like  your  own  face  present  now, 
With  eyes  as  dear  in  their  due  degree, 

Much  such  a  mouth,  and  as  bright  a  brow, 
Till  you  saw  yourself,  while  you  cried  "'Tis  She  ! " 

6. 
Well,  you  may,  you  must,  set  down  to  me 

Love  that  was  life,  life  that  was  love ; 
A  tenure  of  breath  at  your  lips'  decree, 

A  passion  to  stand  as  your  thoughts  approve, 
A  rapture  to  fall  where  your  foot  might  be. 

7- 
But  did  one  touch  of  such  love  for  me 

Come  in  a  word  or  a  look  of  yours, 
Whose  words  and  looks  will,  circling,  flee 

Round  me  and  round  while  life  endures,  — 
Could  I  fancy  "  As  I  feel,  thus  feels  He ; " 

St.  3.  Here  it  is  indicated  that  she  had  not  the  personal  charms  which  were 
needed  to  maintain  her  husband's  interest.    A  pretty  face  was  more  to  him  than  a 
deep  loving  soul. 
St.  6.  vv.  3-5  express  the  entire  devotion  and  submissiveness  of  her  love. 


212  A   TALE. 

8. 
Why,  fade  you  might  to  a  thing  like  me, 

And  your  hair  grow  these  coarse  hanks  of  hair, 
Your  skin,  this  bark  of  a  gnarled  tree,  — 

You  might  turn  myself !  —  should  I  know  or  care, 
When  I  should  be  dead  of  joy,  James  Lee  ? 


A  TALE. 

EPILOGUE  TO  'THE  Two  POETS  OF  CROISIC." 

I. 

WHAT  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
—  Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me  !) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin?     Greek,  you  said, 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 

2. 
Anyhow  there's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more, 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting  !) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 

3- 
Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre  ; 
Playing  was  important  clearly 

Quite  as  singing :  I  desire, 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that's  behind. 


A   TALE.  213 


There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 
Held  the  judges  round, 

—  Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 
To  detect  the  slightest  sound 

Sung  or  played  amiss  :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears  ! 

5- 
None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon, 
Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out :  take  the  prize  !  " 

6. 

When,  a  mischief !     Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed? 
Oh,  and  afterwards  eleven, 

Thank  you  !     Well,  sir,  —  who  had  guessed 
Such  ill  luck  in  store  ?  —  it  happed 
One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped. 

7- 

All  was  lost,  then  !     No  !  a  cricket 
(What  " cicada "?     Pooh!) 

—  Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 
For  mere  love  of  music  —  flew 

With  its  little  heart  on  fire, 
Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 

St.  7.  "  Cicada,"  do  you  say  ?    Pooh  !    that's  bringing  the  mysterious  little 
thing  down  to  the  plane  of  entomology. 


214 


A   TALE. 

8. 

So  that  when  (Ah  joy  !)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger, 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat  ? 


Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirps  at  need, 
Executes  the  hand's  intending, 

Promptly,  perfectly,  —  indeed 
Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 

10. 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
a  Take  the  prize  —  a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument  ? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp  ! " 

ii. 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done? 
That's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 

St.  ii.  when  Music's  son,  etc. :  a  fling  at  Goethe. 


A   TALE.  21$ 


12. 

No  !  This  other,  on  returning 
Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 

Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning  : 
(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand  !) 

—  Said  "  Some  record  there  must  be 

Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me  !  " 


So,  he  made  himself  a  statue  : 

Marble  stood,  life-size  ; 
On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize  ; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

14. 
That's  the  tale  :  its  application  ? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Through  his  poetry  that's  —  Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize  ! 

!$• 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  'Twas  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped? 

16. 

"  For  as  victory  was  nighest, 
While  I  sang  and  played,  — 


CONFESSIONS. 

With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 

Right  alike,  —  one  string  that  made 
'  Love '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 
Never  to  be  heard  again,  — 

17- 

"  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 

18. 
But  you  don't  know  music  !     Wherefore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a  —  poet  ?    All  I  care  for 

Is  —  to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
"  Love  "  comes  aptly  in  when  gruff 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough  !) 


CONFESSIONS. 

i. 

WHAT  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears  ? 

"  Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ?  " 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I  ! 


What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge,  —  is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 


CONFESSIONS. 

3- 
That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden-wall :  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 

4- 

To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall ; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "  Ether  " 

Is  the  house  o'er-topping  all. 

5- 
At  a  terrace,  somewhat  near  the  stopper, 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper, 

My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune. 

6. 
Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except : 

They  styled  their  house  "  The  Lodge." 

7- 
What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane  ? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help,  —  their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 

8.,. 
Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "  Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 


217 


2 1 8  RESPECTABILITY. 

9- 
And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.     Alas, 

We  loved,  sir  —  used  to  meet : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 


RESPECTABILITY. 


DEAR,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 

Deigned  to  proclaim  "  I  know  you  both, 
Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth, 

Am  sponsor  for  you  :  live  in  peace  !  "  — 

How  many  precious  months  and  years 
Of  youth  had  passed,  that  speed  so  fast, 
Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 

The  world,  and  what  it  fears  ? 

2. 
How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 

With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 

And  women  models  of  their  sex, 
Society's  true  ornament,  — 
Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 

Through  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the  Seine, 

And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again 
To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss? 

3- 

I  know  !  the  world  proscribes  not  love  ; 
Allows  my  finger  to  caress 
Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness, 

Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 


HOME  THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD.  219 

The  world's  good  word  !  —  the  Institute  ! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert ! 

Eh  ?     Down  the  court  three  lampions  flare  : 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 


HOME  THOUGHTS,    FROM   ABROAD. 


OH,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 
A,nd  after  April,  when  May  follows 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  !  * 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 
That's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
And  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon- flower  ! 


St.  3.  Quizot :  Francois  Pierre  Guillaume  Guizot,  French  statesman  and  his- 
torian, b.  1787,  d.  1874.  Montalembert:  Charles  Forbes  Rene,  Comtc  dr  Mon- 
talembert, French  statesman,  orator,  and  political  writer,  b.  1810,  d.  1870.  Quizot 
receives  Montalembert :  i.e.,  on  purely  conventional  grounds. 


220  HOME  THOUGHTS.  —  OLD  PICTURES. 

HOME  THOUGHTS,   FROM  THE   SEA. 

NOBLY,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  north-west  died  away ; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay ; 

Bluish  mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay ; 

In  the  dimmest  north-east  distance,  dawned  Gibraltar  grand  and 
gray; 

"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me,  —  how  can  I  help  Eng- 
land?"—  say, 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise  and  pray, 

While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 


OLD   PICTURES  IN   FLORENCE. 

i. 

THE  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 

The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they  say. 
As  Cleaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 

Of  the  villa-gate  this  warm  March  day, 
No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 

In  the  valley  beneath  where,  white  and  wide 
And  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold, 

Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 

2. 
River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 

Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call, 
Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air, 

As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal-ball. 

St.  i.  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold :   the  water  of  the  Arno 
gilded  by  the  morning  sun ; 

"  I  can  but  muse  in  hope,  upon  this  shore 

Of  golden  Arno,  as  it  shoots  away 
Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges  four." 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  22I 

And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised : 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me  ? 

3- 
Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours, 

Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you  so? 
Some  slights  if  a  certain  heart  endures 

Yet  it  feels,  I  would  have  your  fellows  know  ! 
I'  faith,  I  perceive  not  why  I  should  care 

To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them  best, 

St  2.  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised :  the  Campanile  of  the  Cathe- 
dral, or  Duomo,  of  Florence  (La  Cattedrale  di  S.  Maria  del  Fiore),  begun  in  1334. 

"  The  characteristics  of  Power  and  Beauty  occur  more  or  less  in  different  build- 
ings, some  in  one  and  some  in  another.  But  all  together,  and  all  in  their  highest 
possible  relative  degrees,  they  exist,  as  far  as  I  know,  only  in  one  building  of  the 
world,  the  Campanile  of  Giotto."  —  Ruskin.  But  why  did  it  more  than  startle 
me  ?  There's  a  rumor  "  that  a  certain  precious  little  tablet  which  Buonarotti  eyed 
like  a  lover"  has  been  discovered  by  somebody.  If  this  rumor  is  true,  the  speaker 
feels  that  Giotto,  whom  he  has  so  loved,  has  played  him  false,  in  not  favoring  him 
with  the  precious  find.  See  St.  30.  "  The  opinion  which  his  contemporaries  en- 
tertained of  Giotto,  as  the  greatest  genius  in  the  arts  which  Italy  in  that  age  pos- 
sessed, has  been  perpetuated  by  Dante  in  the  lines  in  which  the  illuminator, 
Oderigi,  says :  — 

"  '  In  painting  Cimabue  fain  had  thought 
To  lord  the  field;  now  Giotto  has  the  cry, 
So  that  the  other's  fame  in  shade  is  brought '  (Dante,  Purg.  xi.  93). 

"  Giotto  di  Bondone  was  born  at  Del  Colle,  a  village  in  the  commune  of  Vespign- 
ano  near  Florence,  according  to  Vasari,  A.L>.  1276,  but  more  probably  A.I).  1266. 
He  went  through  his  apprenticeship  under  Cimabue,  and  practised  as  a  painter 
and  architect  not  only  in  Florence,  but  in  various  parts  of  Italy,  in  free  cities  as 
well  as  in  the  courts  of  princes.  ...  On  April  12,  1334,  Giotto  was  appointed  by 
the  civic  authorities  of  Florence,  chief  master  of  the  Cathedral  works,  the  city  for- 
tifications, and  all  public  architectural  undertakings,  in  an  instrument  of  which  the 
wording  constitutes  the  most  affectionate  homage  to  the  '  great  and  dear  master.' 
Giotto  died  January  8,  1337." —  Woltmann  and  \\\>crmann's  History  of  Painting. 

Fora  good  account  of  the  Campanile,  see  Susan  and  Joanna  Homer's  Walks  in 
Florence,  v.  i,  pp.  62-66;  Art.  in  Macmillaris  Mag.,  April,  1877,  by  Sidney  Colvin, 
—  Giotto's  Gospel  of  Labor. 


222  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to  bear 
When  I  find  a  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

4- 
On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  which  they  never  shed), 

'Twixt  the  aloes,  I  used  to  learn  in  chief, 
And  mark  through  the  winter  afternoons, 

By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then, 
In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons, 

Who  walked  in  Florence,  besides  her  men. 

5- 
They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and  go 

For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive  — 
My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I  trow, 

But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive ; 

—  With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch, 
The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave,    . 

Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch, 
Its  face  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 

6. 

Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops, 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse -tick  pains  : 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  the  brick, 

Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, 

—  A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  ancient  Master. 

St.  4.  By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then :  the  gift  of  spiritual 
vision. 

St.  6.  "  He  sees  the  ghosts  of  the  early  Christian  masters,  whose  work  has  never 
been  duly  appreciated,  standing  sadly  by  each  mouldering  Italian  Fresco."  — 
Dcnuden. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  223 

7- 
For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does  ! 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it, 
The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  you  hum  and  buzz 

Round  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little  wit ! 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old  scope, 

Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope? 

'Tis  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 


Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you  ! 

But  the  wronged  great  souls  —  can  they  be  quit 
Of  a  world  where  their  work  is  all  to  do, 

Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the  little  wit, 
Old  Master  This  and  Early  the  Other, 

Not  dreaming  that  Old  and  New  are  fellows : 
A  younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother, 

Da  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from  Dellos. 

9- 
And  here  where  your  praise  might  yield  returns, 

And  a  handsome  word  or  two  give  help, 
Here,  after  your  kind,  the  mastiff  girns, 

And  the  puppy  pack  of  poodles  yelp. 
What,  not  a  word  for  Stefano  there, 

Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry, 
Called  Nature's  Ape  and  the  world's  despair 

For  his  peerless  painting?  (see  Vasari.) 

St.  8.  Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you!  the  Michaels  and 
Rafaels.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  (h.  at  Vinci,  in  the  Val  d'  Arno,  below  Florence, 
1452) ;  "  in  him  the  two  lines  of  artistic  descent,  tracing  from  classic  Rome  and 
Christian  By/untiiim,  meet.1" — Ht-at^n's  History  of  Painting.  Dello  di  Niccolo 
Delli,  painter  and  sculptor,  fl.  first  half  15111  cent. 

St.  9.  "  Stefano  is  extolled  by  Vasari  as  having  left  Giotto  himself  far  behind, 
but  it  is  very  difficult  to  ascertain  what  were  really  his  works." — Heat<>n. 
fano  appears  from  Landinio's  Commentary  on  Dante  to  have  been  called  scimia 


224  OLD   PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

10. 
There  stands  the  Master.     Study,  my  friends, 

What  a  man's  work  comes  to  !     So  he  plans  it, 
Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 

For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and  then,  sic  transit! 
Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labor, 

With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand  is  busy, 
Not  sidling  a  glance  at  the  coin  of  their  neighbor  ! 

'Tis  looking  downward  makes  one  dizzy. 

n. 

"  If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal  your  dole." 

May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 
When  Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the  goal, 

Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast  infructu  — 
The  Truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first  spoken, 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble, 
Was  re-uttered,  and  Soul  (which  Limbs  betoken) 

And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  made  new  in  marble. 

12. 
So,  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you  were, 

As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  cannot  be ; 
Earth  here,  rebuked  by  Olympus  there  : 

And  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 
With  your  little  power,  by  those  statues'  godhead, 

And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes'  full  sway, 
And  your  little  grace,  by  their  grace  embodied, 

And  your  little  date,  by  their  forms  that  stay. 

della  natura,  the  ape  of  nature,  which  seems  to  refer  to  the  strong  realistic  tenden- 
cies common  to  the  school." — Woltmann  and  Woermanris  Hist,  of  Painting. 
Giorgio  Vasari,  an  Italian  painter  of  Arezzo,  b.  1512,  d.  1574;  author  of  Vite  de' 
piu  excellenti  pittori  scultori  ed  architcttori"  Florence,  1550. 

St.  ii.  "If  you  knew  their  "work,"  etc.  The  speaker  imputes  this  remark 
to  some  one ;  the  meaning  is,  if  you  really  knew  these  old  Christian  painters,  you 
would  deal  them  your  mite  of  praise,  damn  them,  perhaps,  with  faint  praise,  and  no 
more.  The  poet  then  proceeds  to  instruct  this  person. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  ELOREXCE.  225 


You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say,  than  I  am  ? 

Even  so,  you  will  not  sit  like  Theseus. 
You  would  prove  a  model  ?    The  Son  of  Priam 

Has  yet  the  advantage  in  arms'  and  knees'  use. 
You're  wroth  —  can  you  slay  your  snake  like  Apollo  ? 

You're  grieved  —  still  Niobe's  the  grander  ! 
You  live  —  there's  the  Racers'  frieze  to  follow  : 

You  die  —  there's  the  dying  Alexander. 

14. 

So,  testing  your  weakness  by  their  strength, 
Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded  beauty, 

Measured  by  Art  in  your  breadth  and  length, 
You  learned  —  to  submit  is  a  mortal's  duty. 

St.  13.  Theseus  :  a  reclining  statue  from  the  eastern  pediment  of  the  Parthenon, 
now  in  the  British  Museum.  The  Son  of  Priam  :  probably  the  Paris  of  the 
jEginetan  Sculptures  (now  in  the  Glyptothek  at  Munich),  which  is  kneeling  and 
drawing  the  bow. 

Apollo  :  "  A  word  on  the  line  about  Apollo  the  snake-slayer,  which  my  friend  Professor 
Colvin  condemns,  believing  that  the  God  of  the  Belvedere  grasps  no  bow,  but  the  ./Egis,  as 
described  in  the  isth  Iliad.  Surely  the  text  represents  that  portentous  object  (flovpir,  Jen'iji-, 
a/i<£i6a<r«iai<,  apiirptiri'  —  ^ap^ap(rjf)  as  'shaken  violently'  or  'held  immovably  '  by  both 
hands,  not  a  single  one,  and  that  the  left  hand:  — 

aAAi  <ru  y'  iv  \tiptovi.  Aa/3'  aiyiSa  Ovuavofiraav 
•n\v  /iaA'  firiaatiuiv  <f>of$(ftv  ijpua?  "A^aiou?. 

and  so  on,  -n^v  ap*  o  y"  tv  \fipfaaiv  t\<av  —  xe(HTlv  'X*  oTp«'jia,  <c.T.A.  Moreover,  while  he 
shook  it  he  '  shouted  enormously,'  treltr',  eVi  8'  avrb«  avo-e  jioAa  M«yai  which  the  statue  does  not. 
Presently  when  Teukros,  on  the  other  side,  plies  the  bow,  it  is  TO£  of  HXHIV  iv  \ei.p\.  iraXivrovov. 
Besides,  by  the  act  of  discharging  an  arrow,  the  right  arm  and  hand  are  thrown  back  as  we 
see,  —  a  quite  gratuitous  and  theatrical  display  in  the  case  supposed.  The  conjecture  of  Flax- 
man  that  the  statue  was  suggested  by  the  bronze  Apollo  Alexikakos  of  Kalamis,  mentioned  by 
Pausanias,  remains  probable;  though  the  'hardness'  which  Cicero  considers  to  distinguish 
the  artist's  workmanship  from  that  of  Muron  is  not  by  any  means  apparent  in  our  marble  copy, 
if  it  be  one.  —  Feb.  16,  1880."  —  The  Poet  's  Note. 

Niobe  :  group  of  ancient  sculpture,  in  the  gallery  of  the  Uffizi  Palace,  in  Flor- 
ence, representing  Niobe  mourning  the  death  of  her  children,  the  Racers' 
frieze:  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  is  perhaps  meant,  the  reference  being  to  the 
fulness  of  life  exhibited  by  the  men  and  horses,  the  dying  Alexander:  "  '  The 
Dying  Alexander,'  at  Florence.  This  well-known,  beautiful,  and  deeply  affecting 
head,  which  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  Alexander  Helios  of  the  Capitol  — 


226  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

—  When  I  say  "  you,"  'tis  the  common  soul, 
The  collective,  I  mean  :  the  race  of  Man 

That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  a  whole, 
And  grow  here  according  to  God's  clear  plan. 


Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last  on  them  all, 

You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one  fine  day 
And  cried  with  a  start  —  What  if  we  so  small 

Be  greater  and  grander  the  while  than  they? 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of  stature  ? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature  ; 

For  time,  theirs  —  ours,  for  eternity. 

16. 

To-day's  brief  passion  limits  their  range  ; 

It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and  more. 
They  are  perfect  —  how  else  ?  they  shall  never  change  : 

We  are  faulty  —  why  not?  we  have  time  in  store. 
The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 

With  us  ;  we  are  rough-hewn,  nowise  polished. 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once  invested 

With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see  them  abolished. 

especially  in  the  treatment  of  the  hair  —  has  been  called  by  Ottfried  Miiller  a  riddle 
of  archaeology.  It  is  no  doubt  a  Greek  original,  and  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing remains  of  ancient  art,  but  we  cannot  take  it  for  granted  that  it  is  intended 
for  Alexander,  and  still  less  that  it  is  the  work  of  Lysippus.  It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  that  the  favored  and  devoted  artist  of  the  mighty  conqueror  would 
choose  to  portray  his  great  master  in  a  painful  and  impotent  struggle  with 
disease  and  death.  This  consideration  makes  it  extremely  improbable  that 
it  was  executed  during  the  lifetime  of  Alexander,  and  the  whole  character  of  the 
work,  in  which  free  pathos  is  the  prevailing  element,  and  its  close  resemblance 
in  style  to  the  heads  on  coins  of  the  period  of  the  Diadochi,  point  to  a  later 
age  than  that  of  Lysippus."  —  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture  by  Walter  Copland 
Perry.  London,  1882.  /.  484. 
St.  14.  common  :  general. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  227 


Tis  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be  leaven  — 

The  better  !     What's  come  to  perfection  perishes. 
Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise  in  heaven  : 

Works  done  least  rapidly,  Art  most  cherishes. 
Thyself  shalt  afford  the  example,  Giotto  ! 

Thy  one  work,  not  to  decrease  or  diminish, 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not?)  "  O  !  " 

Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 

18. 
Is  it  true  that  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  hereafter, 

But  what  and  where  depend  on  life's  minute  ? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 

Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it  ? 
Shall  Man,  such  step  within  his  endeavor, 

Man's  face,  have  no  more  play  and  action 

St.  15-17.  "  Greek  art  had  its  lesson  to  teach,  and  it  taught  it.  It  reasserted  the 
dignity  of  the  human  form.  It  re-stated  the  truth  of  the  soul  which  informs  the 
body,  and  the  body  which  expresses  it.  Men  saw  in  its  creations  their  own  qual- 
ities carried  to  perfection,  and  were  content  to  know  that  such  perfection  was 
possible  and  to  renounce  the  hope  of  attaining  it.  In  this  experience  the  first 
stage  was  progress,  the  second  was  stagnation.  Progress  began  again  when  men 
looked  on  these  images  of  themselves  and  said  :  '  we  are  not  inferior  to  these.  We 
are  greater  than  they.  For  what  has  come  to  perfection  perishes,  and  we  are  im- 
perfect because  eternity  is  before  us;  because  we  were  made  to  grow'"  —  Mrs. 
Orr's  Handbook  to  the  Works  of  R.  B. 

St.  17.  "O!  "  Boniface  VIII.  (not  Benedict  IX.,  as  Vasari  has  it),  wishing  to 
employ  Giotto,  sent  a  courtier  to  obtain  some  proof  of  his  skill.  The  latter  re- 
questing a  drawing  to  send  to  his  Holiness,  Giotto  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a 
pencil  dipped  in  red  color;  then  resting  his  elbow  on  his  side,  to  form  a  compass, 
with  one  turn  of  his  hand  he  drew  a  circle  so  perfect  and  exact,  that  it  was  a 
marvel  to  behold.  This  done,  he  turned  to  the  courtier,  saying,  "  Here  is  your 
drawing."  The  courtier  seems  to  have  thought  that  Giotto  was  fooling  him  ;  but 
the  pope  was  easily  convinced,  by  the  roundness  of  the  O,  of  the  greatness  of 
Giotto's  skill.  This  incident  gave  rise  to  the  proverb,  "  Tu  sei  piu  tondo  che  1'  O 
di  Giotto,"  the  point  of  which  lies  in  the  word  tondo,  signifying  slowness  of  intellect, 
as  well  as  a  circle.  —  Adapted  from  Vasari  and  Heaton. 

St.  18.  life's  minute  :  life's  short  span. 


228  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever, 
Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction? 

19. 
On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early  painters, 

To  cries  of  "Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish  you?"- 
Replied,  "  To  become  now  self-acquainters, 

And  paint  man,  man,  whatever  the  issue  ! 
Make  new  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh  they  fray, 

New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and  tatters  : 
To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play, 

Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs  —  what  matters  ?  " 

20. 
Give  these,  I  exhort  you,  their  guerdon  and  glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race's  story, 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old ;  'tis  no  idle  quiddit. 
The  worthies  began  a  revolution, 

Which  if  on  earth  you  intend  to  acknowledge, 
Why,  honor  them  now  !   (ends  my  allocution) 

Nor  confer  your  degree  when  the  folks  leave  college. 


There's  a  fancy  some  lean  to  and  others  hate  — 

That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and  wins  : 
Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world's  congeries, 

Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small, 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series ; 

Only  the  scale's  to  be  changed,  that's  all. 

22. 

Yet  I  hardly  know.     When  a  soul  has  seen 
By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best, 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  229 

And,  through  earth  and  its  noise,  what  is  heaven's  serene,  — 
When  our  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the  test,  — 

Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 
The  uses  of  labor  are  surely  done  ; 

There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God : 
And  I  have  had  troubles  enough,  for  one. 

23- 
But  at  any  rate  I  have  loved  the  season 

Of  Art's  spring-birth  so  dim  and  dewy ; 
My  sculptor  is  Nicolo  the  Pisan, 

My  painter  —  who  but  Cimabue  ? 
Nor  even  was  man  of  them  all  indeed, 

From  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Ghirlandajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. 

So,  now  to  my  special  grievance  —  heigh-ho  ! 

24. 

Their  ghosts  still  stand,  as  I  said  before, 

Watching  each  fresco  flaked  and  rasped, 
Blocked  up,  knocked  out,  or  whitewashed  o'er : 

—  No  getting  again  what  the  Church  has  grasped  ! 

St.  23.  Nicolo  the  Pisan :  Nicolo  Pisano,  architect  and  sculptor,  b.  ab.  1207, 
d.  1278 ;  the  church  and  monastery  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  at  Florence,  and  the  church 
of  San  Antonio,  at  Padua,  are  esteemed  his  best  architectural  works,  and  his  bas- 
reliefs  in  the  Cathedral  of  Sienna,  his  best  sculptural.  Cimabue:  Giovanni 
Cimabue,  1240-1302,  "  ends  the  long  Byzantine  succession  in  Italy.  .  .  .  In  him 
'  the  spirit  of  the  years  to  come '  is  decidedly  manifest ;  but  he  never  entirely  suc- 
ceeded in  casting  off  the  hereditary  Byzantine  asceticism."  —  Heaton.  Giotto  was 
his  pupil.  Ghiberti  :  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  the  great  Florentine  sculptor,  1381-1455  ; 
his  famous  masterpiece,  the  eastern  doors  of  the  Florentine  Baptistery,  of  San 
Giovanni,  of  which  Michael  Angelo  said  that  they  were  worthy  to  be  the  gates  of 
Paradise.  Ghirlandajo  :  Domenico  Bigordi,  called  Ghirlandajo,  or  the  garland- 
maker,  celebrated  painter,  b.  in  Florence,  1449,  d.  1494 ;  "  in  treatment,  drawing, 
and  modelling,  G.  excels  any  fresco-painter  since  Masaccio ;  shares  with  the  two 
Lippis,  father  and  son,  a  fondness  for  introducing  subordinate  groups  which  was 
unknown  to  Masaccio."  —  Woltmann  and  Woermann's  Hist,  of  Painting. 


230  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

The  works  on  the  wall  must  take  their  chance ; 

"  Works  never  conceded  to  England's  thick  clime  !  " 
(I  hope  they  prefer  their  inheritance 

Of  a  bucketful  of  Italian  quicklime.) 

25- 
When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a  shaking 

Of  heads  o'er  the  old  delusion,  sadly 
Each  master  his  way  through  the  black  streets  taking, 

Where  many  a  lost  work  breathes  though  badly  — 
Why  don't  they  bethink  them  of  who  has  merited  ? 

Why  not  reveal,  while  their  pictures  dree 
Such  doom,  how  a  captive  might  be  out-ferreted  ? 

Why  is  it  they  never  remember  me  ? 

26. 

Not  that  I  expect  the  great  Bigordi, 

Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric,  bellicose ; 
Nor  the  wronged  Lippino  ;  and  not  a  word  I 

Say  of  a  scrap  of  Fra  Angelico's  : 
But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 

To  grant  me  a  taste  of  your  intonaco, 
Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven  with  a  sad  eye  ? 

Not  a  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco  ? 

St.  25.  dree  :  endure  (A.  S.  dredgan). 

St.  26.  Bigordi:  Ghirlandajo;  see  above.  Sandro  Filipepi,  called  Botticelli 
(1437-1515),  "  belonged  in  feeling,  to  the  older  Christian  school,  tho'  his  religious 
sentiment  was  not  quite  strong  enough  to  resist  entirely  the  paganizing  influence  of 
the  time "  (Heaton) ;  became  a  disciple  of  Savonarola.  Lippino :  Filippino 
Lippi,  son  of  Fra  Filippo  (1460-1505),  "added  to  his  father's  bold  naturalism  a 
dramatic  talent  in  composition,  which  places  his  works  above  the  mere  realisms  of 
Fra  Filippo,  and  renders  him  worthy  to  be  placed  next  to  Masaccio  in  the  line  of 
progress." — Heaton.  Fr&  Angelico:  see  under  the  Monologue  of  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi.  Taddeo  Gaddi:  "foremost  amongst  these  ('The  Giotteschi')  stands 
the  name  of  T.  G.  (1300,  living  in  1366),  the  son  of  Gaddo  Gaddi,  and  godson  of 
Giotto ;  was  an  architect  as  well  as  painter,  and  was  on  the  council  of  Works  of  S. 
Maria  del  Fiore,  after  Giotto's  death,  and  carried  out  his  design  for  the  bell-tower." 


OLD  PICTURES  /AT  FLORENCE.  231 

27. 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red  cap, 

My  Pollajolo,  the  twice  a  craftsman, 
Save  me  a  sample,  give  me  the  hap 

Of  a  muscular  Christ  that  shows  the  draughtsman  ? 
No  Virgin  by  him  the  somewhat  petty, 

Of  finical  touch  and  tempera  crumbly  — 
Could  not  Alesso  Baldovinetti 

Contribute  so  much,  I  ask  him  humbly? 

28. 
Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 

With  the  grave-clothes  garb  and  swaddling  barret 
(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a  pet  so, 

You  bald  old  saturnine  poll-clawed  parrot?) 

—  Heaton.  intonaco  :  rough-casting.  Lorenzo  Monaco :  see  under  the  Mon- 
ologue of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi. 

St.  27.  Pollajolo  :  "  Antonio  Pollajuolo  (ab.  1430-1498)  was  a  sculptor  and 
goldsmith,  more  than  a  painter ;  .  .  .  his  master-work  in  pictorial  art  is  the  Martyr- 
dom of  St.  Sebastian,  in  the  Nat.  Gal.,  painted  for  the  Pucci  Chapel  in  the  Church 
of  San  Sebastiano  de'  Servi,  at  Florence.  '  This  painting,'  says  Vasari,  '  has  been 
more  extolled  than  any  other  ever  executed  by  Antonio.'  It  is,  however,  unpleas- 
antly hard  and  obtrusively  anatomical.  Pollajuolo  is  said  to  have  been  the  first 
artist  who  studied  anatomy  by  means  of  dissection,  and  his  sole  aim  in  this  picture 
seems  to  have  been  to  display  his  knowledge  of  muscular  action.  He  was  an  en- 
graver as  well  as  goldsmith,  sculptor,  and  painter."  —  Heaton.  tempera:  see 
Webster,  s.  w.  "  tempera  "  and  "  distemper."  Alesso  Baldovinetti :  Florentine 
painter,  b.  1422,  or  later,  d.  1499;  worked  in  mosaic,  particularly  as  a  restorer  of 
old  mosaics,  besides  painting;  he  made  many  experiments  in  both  branches  of 
art,  and  attempted  to  work  fresco  al  secco,  and  varnish  it  so  as  to  make  it  perma- 
nent, but  in  this  he  failed.  His  works  were  distinguished  for  extreme  minuteness 
of  detail.  "  In  the  church  of  the  Annunziata  in  Florence,  he  executed  an  historical 
piece  in  fresco,  but  finished  a  secco,  wherein  he  represented  the  Nativity  of  Christ, 
painted  with  such  minuteness  of  care,  that  each  separate  straw  in  the  roof  of  a 
cabin,  figured  therein,  may  be  counted,  and  every  knot  in  these  straws  distin- 
guished."—  I'asari.  His  remaining  works  are  much  injured  by  scaling  or  the 
abrasion  of  the  colors. 

St.  28.  Margaritone:  painter,  sculptor,  and  architect,  of  Arezzo  (1236-1313) ; 
the  most  important  of  his  remaining  pictures  is  a  Madonna,  in  the  London  Na- 
tional Gallery,  from  Church  of  St,  Margarci,  at  Arezio, "  said  to  be  a  character- 


232  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

Not  a  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion, 

Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the  donor? 

If  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction, 
The  hoarding  it  does  you  but  little  honor. 

29. 

They  pass ;  for  them  the  panels  may  thrill, 

The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tinglish  ; 
Their  pictures  are  left  to  the  mercies  still 

Of  dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and  the  English, 
Who,  seeing  mere  money's  worth  in  their  prize, 

Will  sell  it  to  somebody  calm  as  Zeno 
At  naked  High  Art,  and  in  ecstasies 

Before  some  clay-cold  vile  Carlino  ! 

30- 
No  matter  for  these  !     But  Giotto,  you, 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the  town-tongues  babble  it  — 
Oh,  never  !  it  shall  not  be  counted  true  — 

That  a  certain  precious  little  tablet 

istic  work,  and  mentioned  by  Vasari,  who  praises  its  small  figures,  which  he  says 
are  executed  '  with  more  grace  and  finished  with  greater  delicacy '  than  the  larger 
ones.  Nothing,  however,  can  be  more  unlike  nature,  than  the  grim  Madonna  and 
the  weird  starved  Child  in  her  arms  (see  Wornum's  Catal.  A'at.  Gal.,  for  a  description 
of  this  painting).  Margaritone's  favorite  subject  was  the  figure  of  St.  Francis,  his 
style  being  well  suited  to  depict  the  chief  ascetic  saint.  Crucifixions  were  also 
much  to  his  taste,  and  he  represented  them  in  all  their  repulsive  details.  Vasari 
relates  that  he  died  at  the  age  of  77,  afflicted  and  disgusted  at  having  lived  to  see 
the  changes  that  had  taken  place  in  art,  and  the  honors  bestowed  on  the  new 
artists."  — Heaton.  His  monument  to  Pope  Gregory  X.  in  the  Cathedral  of  Arezzo, 
is  ranked  among  his  best  works.  "Browning  possesses  the  'Crucifixion'  by  M.  to 
which  he  alludes,  as  also  the  pictures  of  Alesso  Baldovinetti,  and  Taddeo  Gaddi, 
and  Pollajuolo  described  in  the  poem." — Browning  Soc.  Papers,  Pt.  II.,  p.  169. 

St.  29.  tempera:  see  Webster,  s.v.  tinglish:  sharp?  Zeno :  founder  of 
the  Stoic  philosophy.  Carlino:  some  expressionless  picture  by  Carlo,  or  Car- 
lino,  Dolci.  His  works  show  an  extreme  finish,  often  with  no  end  beyond  itself; 
some  being,  to  use  Ruskin's  words,  "  polished  into  inanity." 

St.  30.  a  certain  precious  little  tablet  :  "  The  '  little  tablet '  was  a  famous 
'  Last  Supper/  mentioned  by  Vasari,  and  gone  Astray  long  ago  from  the  Church 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  233 

Which  Buonarroti  eyed  like  a  lover, 

Was  buried  so  long  in  oblivion's  womb 
And,  left  for  another  than  I  to  discover, 

Turns  up  at  last !  and  to  whom?  —  to  whom? 

3T- 

I,  that  have  haunted  the  dim  San  Spirito, 

(Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ?) 
Patient  on  altar-step  planting  a  weary  toe  ! 

Nay,  I  shall  have  it  yet !     Detur  amanti! 
My  Koh-i-noor  —  or  (if  that's  a  platitude) 

Jewel  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Soft's  eye ; 
So,  in  anticipative  gratitude, 

What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy? 

32- 
When  the  hour  grows  ripe,  and  a  certain  dotard 

Is  pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  invoicing, 
To  the  worse  side  of  the  Mont  St.  Gothard, 

We  shall  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing ; 
None  of  that  shooting  the  sky  (blank  cartridge), 

Nor  a  civic  guard,  all  plumes  and  lacquer, 

of  S.  Spirito :  it  turned  up,  according  to  report,  in  some  obscure  corner,  while  I 
was  in  Florence,  and  was  at  once  acquired  by  a  stranger.  I  saw  it,  genuine  or 
no,  a  work  of  great  beauty."  —  From  Poet's  Letter  to  the  Editor.  Buonarotti : 
Michael  Angelo  (more  correctly,  Michel  Agnolo)  Buonarotti,  b.  6th  of  March, 
1475,  at  Castel  Caprese,  near  Florence ;  d.  at  Rome,  i8th  of  Feb.,  1564.  and  to 
whom?  —  to  whom?  a  contemptuous  repetition. 

St.  31.  San  Spirito :  a  church  of  the  i4th  century,  in  Florence.  Ogriis- 
santi :  i.e., "  All  Saints,"  in  Florence.  I  shall  have  it  yet  I  I  shall  make  a  happy 
find  yet.  Detur  amanti!  let  it  be  given  to  the  loving  one.  Koh-i-noor: 
"  Mountain  of  Light,"  a  celebrated  diamond,  "  the  diamond  of  the  great  Mogul," 
presented  to  Queen  Victoria,  in  1850.  See  Art.  on  the  Diamond,  N.  Brit.  Rev.  Vol. 
18,  p.  186,  and  Art.,  Diamond,  Encycl.  Brit. ;  used  here,  by  metonymy,  for  a  great 
treasure.  Jewel  of  Giamschid  :  the  Deria-i-noor,  or  the  Sea  of  Light,  one  of 
the  largest  of  known  diamonds,  belonging  to  the  king  of  Persia,  is  probably  referred 
to.  See  A',  lirit.  Rev.,  /'<>/.  18, /.  217. 

St.  32.  a  certain  dotard :  Joseph  Wenzcl  Radetzky,  b.  Nov.  a,  1766,  d.  Jan. 


234  OLD  prCTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

Hunting  Radetzky's  soul  like  a  partridge 
Over  Morello  with  squib  and  cracker. 

33- 
This  time  we'll  shoot  better  game  and  bag  'em  hot : 

No  mere  display  at  the  stone  of  Dante, 
But  a  kind  of  sober  Witanagemot 

(Ex  :  "  Casa  Guidi,"  quod  videas  ante) 
Shall  ponder,  once  Freedom  restored  to  Florence, 

How  Art  may  return  that  departed  with  her. 
Go,  hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the  Loraine's, 

And  bring  us  the  days  of  Orgagna  hither  ! 

34- 
How  we  shall  prologuize,  how  we  shall  perorate, 

Utter  fit  things  upon  art  and  history, 
Feel  truth  at  blood-heat  and  falsehood  at  zero  rate, 

Make  of  the  want  of  the  age  no  mystery ; 
Contrast  the  fructuous  and  sterile  eras, 

Show  —  monarchy  ever  its  uncouth  cub  licks 
Out  of  the  bear's  shape  into  Chimaera's, 

While  Pure  Art's  birth  is  still  the  republic's  ! 

35- 

Then  one  shall  propose  in  a  speech  (curt  Tuscan, 
Expurgate  and  sober,  with  scarcely  an  "issimv"), 

5,  1858,  in  his  92d  year;  governed  the  Austrian  possessions  in  Italy  to  Feb.  28, 
1857.  Morello :  Monte  Morello,  the  highest  of  the  spurs  of  the  Apennines,  to 
the  north  of  Florence. 

St.  33.  the  stone  of  Dante :  see  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  Pt.  I.,  Sect.  XIV.,  XV. 
Witanagemot:  A.  S.  witena  gemdt:  an  assembly  of  wise  men,  a  parliament. 
Casa  Guidi:  Mrs.  Browning's  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  a  poem  named  from  the 
house  in  Florence  in  which  she  lived,  and  giving  her  impressions  of  events  in  Tus- 
cany at  the  time,  the  Loraine's:  the  "hated  house"  included  the  Cardinals  of 
Guise,  or  Lorraine,  and  the  Dukes  of  Guise,  a  younger  branch  of  the  house  of  Lor- 
raine. Orgagna :  Andrea  di  Clone  (surnamed  Orcagna,  or  Arcagnolo,  approxi- 
mate dates  of  b.  and  d.  1315-1376),  one  of  the  most  noted  successors  of  Giotto, 
and  allied  to  him  in  genius ;  though  he  owed  much  to  Giotto,  he  showed  great 
independence  of  spirit  in  his  style. 

St.  35.  an  "  issiruo  "  :  any  adjective  in  the  superlative  degree,    to  end:  com- 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE,  235 

To  end  now  our  half-told  tale  of  Cambuscan, 
And  turn  the  bell- tower's  alt  to  altissimo; 

And,  fine  as  the  beak  of  a  young  beccaccia, 
The  Campanile,  the  Duomo's  fit  ally, 

Shall  soar  up  in  gold  full  fifty  braccia, 
Completing  Florence,  as  Florence,  Italy. 

36. 

Shall  I  be  alive  that  morning  the  scaffold 

Is  broken  away,  and  the  long-pent  fire, 
Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world,  unbaffled 

Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes  the  spire, 
While,  "  God  and  the  People  "  plain  for  its  motto, 

Thence  the  new  tricolor  flaps  at  the  sky? 
At  least  to  foresee  that  glory  of  Giotto 

And  Florence  together,  the  first  am  I  ! 

plete.   our  half -told  tale  of  Cambuscan :  by  metonymy  for  the  unfinished 

Campanile  of  Giotto ; 

"  Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold." 

—  Milton's  II  Penseroso. 

An  allusion  to  Chaucer,  who  left  the  Squires  Tale  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  unfin- 
ished. The  poet  follows  Milton's  accentuation  of  the  word  "Cambuscan,"  on  the 
penult ;  it's  properly  accented  on  the  ultimate,  beccaccia :  woodcock,  the 
Duomo's  fit  ally:  "There  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  only  one  Gothic  building  in 
Europe,  the  Duomo  of  Florence,  in  which  the  ornament  is  so  exquisitely  finished 
as  to  enable  us  to  imagine  what  might  have  been  the  effect  of  the  perfect  workman- 
ship of  the  Renaissance,  coming  out  of  the  hands  of  men  like  Verocchio  and 
Ghiberti,  had  it  been  employed  on  the  magnificent  framework  of  Gothic  structure." 
—  Raskin  in  Stones  of  Venice. 

St.  36.  and  up  goes  the  spire :  Giotto's  plan  included  a  spire  of  100  feet, 
but  the  project  was  abandoned  by  Taddeo  Gaddi,  who  carried  on  the  work  after 
the  death  of  Giotto  in  1336. 

"  The  mountains  from  without 
In  silence  listen  for  the  word  sakl  next. 
What  word  will  men  say,  —  here  where  Giotto  planted 
His  Campanile  like  an  unperplexed 
Fine  question  heaven-ward,  touching  the  things  granted 
A  noble  people,  who,  being  greatly  vexed 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted?" 

—  Mrs.  Browning's  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  Pt.  I.,  w.  66-72. 


236  PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 
[FLORENCE,  15 — .] 

I  COULD  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth's 

Ye  praise  so.     How  my  soul  springs  up  !     No  bar 
Stayed  me  —  ah,  thought  which  saddens  while  it  soothes  ! 

—  Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all  my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God  :  nor  would  my  flesh  have  shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like  thunder,  sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant ;  or  around  10 

Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 

Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I  saw, 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue  : 
Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 

A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 

Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to  its  place ;  20 

Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a  castle  braved,  — 
O  human  faces  !  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved? 

3.  ah,  thought  which  saddens  while  it  soothes :  the  thought  saddens 
him  that  he  has  not  realized  his  capabilities,  and  soothes  him  that  he  has  resisted 
the  temptations  to  earthly  fame,  and  been  true  to  his  soul. 

14-22.  he  could  have  expressed  Hope,  Rapture,  Confidence,  and  all  other  pas- 
sions, in  the  human  face,  each  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue. 

23.  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ?  the  cup  of  his  memory. 

24.  What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved  ?  he  has  retained  all 
the  impressions  he  has  received  from  human  faces. 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 


237 


Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well !) 

Of  going  —  I,  in  each  new  picture,  —  forth, 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 

To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South,  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went,  3o 

Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 

Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the  event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should  greet 

My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet !  — 

Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture,  linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should  end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here, 
Here  on  my  earth,  earth's  every  man  my  friend, 

The  thought  grew  frightful,  'twas  so  wildly  dear  !  4o 

But  a  voice  changed  it.     Glimpses  of  such  sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  through  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites  ! 

This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was,  before  : 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there  trooped 

.  .  .     Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that  begun 
To  press  on  me  and  judge  me?     Though  I  stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a  nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me  ...  enough  ! 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and  give,  5o 

Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 

And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures  live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 

25  et seq.  :  Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well  I  have  dreamed!)  of 
going  forth  in  each  new  picture,  as  it  went  to  Pope  or  Kaiser,  etc.,  making  new 
hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell. 

34.  the  star  not  yet  distinct  above  his  hair:  his  fame  not  having  yet 
shone  brightly  out ;  "  his  "  refers  to  "  youth."  lie  learning  :  and  should  lie. 

41.  But  a  voice  changed  it :  the  voice  of  his  secret  soul. 


238  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of,  —  "  This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate, 

This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less  !  " 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.     If  at  whiles 

My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint,  60 

With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard,  — 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand  apart : 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 

While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall's  travertine, 

'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures  !  surely,  gently  die  ! 

O  youth,  men  praise  so,  —  holds  their  praise  its  worth?    70 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry? 

Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of  earth  ? 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO. 
[CALLED  "THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTER."] 

Bur  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 

No,  my  Lucrezia  !  bear  with  me  for  once  : 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 

I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 

Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 

67.  travertine  :  coaling  of  lime ;  properly  a  limestone.    Lat.,  lapis  Tiburtinvs, 
found  near  Tibur,  now  Tivoli. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 


239 


And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 

When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it?  tenderly? 

Oh,  I'll  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow,  Love  !  u 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 

This  evening  more  than  usual :  and  it  seems 

As  if —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 

Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 

And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 

Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 

Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 

To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this  !  ao 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine,  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither ;  you  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require  : 

It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so  — 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet  — 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks  —  no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile?  why,  there's  rny  picture  ready  made, 

There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 

29.  My  face,  my  moon : 

"  Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 
The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow." 

—  Cleopatra,  in  Tennyson's  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women. 

"  You  are  the  powerful  moon  of  my  blood's  sea, 
To  make  it  ebb  or  flow  into  my  face 
As  your  looks  change." 

—  Ford  and  Decker's  Witch  of  Edmonton. 


240  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

A  common  grayness  silvers  every  thing,  — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone,  you  know)  —  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  4o 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top ; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  every  thing. 

Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ;  so 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie  ! 

This  chamber,  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us  !     You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak  : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be  : 
Behold  Madonna  !  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,  60 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps  :  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week ; 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 

35.   A  common  grayness :  Andrea  del  Sarto  was  distinguished  for  his  skill 
in  chiaro-oscuro. 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO. 


241 


No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do,  7o 

And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  —  so  much  less  ! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia  :  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain,  so 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word  — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself,  90 

82.  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand:  "  Andrea  del  Sarto's  was, 
after  all,  but  the  '  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand,'  and  therefore  his  perfect 
ait  does  not  touch  our  hearts  like  that  of  Fra  Bartolommeo,  who  occupies  about 
i  he  same  position  with  regard  to  the  great  masters  of  the  century  as  Andrea  del 
Sarto.  Fra  Bartolommeo  spoke  from  his  heart.  He  was  moved  by  the  spirit,  so 
to  speak,  to  express  his  pure  and  holy  thoughts  in  beautiful  language,  and  the 
ideal  that  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  and  from  which  he,  equally  with  Raphael, 
worked,  approached  almost  as  closely  as  Raphael's  to  that  abstract  beauty  after 
which  they  both  longed.  Andrea  del  Sarto  had  no  such  longing :  he  was  content 
with  the  loveliness  of  earth.  This  he  could  understand  and  imitate  in  its  fullest 
perfection,  and  therefore  he  troubled  himself  but  little  about  the  'wondrous  pa- 
terne'laid  up  in  heaven.  Many  of  his  Madonnas  have  greater  beauty,  strictly 
speaking,  than  those  of  Bartolommeo,  or  even  of  Raphael;  but  we  miss  in  them 
that  mysterious  spiritual  loveliness  that  gives  the  latter  their  chief  charm."  —  Hea- 
ton's  History  of  Painting. 


242  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken  ;  what  of  that  ?  or  else,  • 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;  what  of  that  ? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  heaven  for?     All  is  silver-gray, 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse  ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain ;  I00 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  !  "     No  doubt. 

Vender's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

(Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way;  no 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there  again  — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right  —  that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm  !  and  I  could  alter  it : 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me  !     And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

93.  Morello :  the  highest  of  the  spurs  of  the  Apennines  to  the  north  of  Flor- 
ence. 

96.  Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ?  it's  beyond 
their  criticism. 

105.  The  Urbinate :  Raphael  Santi,  born  1483,  in  Urbino.    Andrea  sees  in 
Raphael,  whose  technique  was  inferior  to  his  own,  his  superior,  as  he  reached 
above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way. 

106.  George  Vasari :  see  note  under  St.  9  of  Old  Pictures  in  Florence, 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  243 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think —  120 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo  !  130 

Rafael  is  waiting  :  up  to  God,  all  three  !  " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat  —  somewhat,  too,  the  power  — 

And  thus  we  half- men  struggle.     At  the  end,  140 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

120.  Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked:  it  must  be  understood  that  his 
wife  has  replied  with  pique,  to  what  he  said  in  the  two  preceding  lines. 

129.  by  the  future  :  when  placed  by,  in  comparison  with,  the  future. 

130.  Agnolo  :  Michael  Angelo  (more  correctly,  Agnolo)  Buonarotti.  See  note 
under  St.  30  of  Old  Pictures  in  Florence. 

146.  For  fear  of  chancing'  on  the  Paris  lords:  by  reason  of  his  breaking 
the  faith  he  had  pledged  to  Francis  I.  of  France,  and  using  for  his  own  purposes, 
or  his  wife's,  the  money  with  which  the  king  had  entrusted  him  to  purchase  works 
of  art  in  Italy. 


244  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes  ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak  !     That  Francis,  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  !  I5o 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,  — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile,      x 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls  160 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts,  — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward  ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know  — 

'Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said ; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray : 

And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world.         j70 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 

You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there ;  then,  if 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 


149-165.   That  Francis,  that  first  time  :  he  thinks  with  regret  of  the  king 
and  of  his  honored  and  inspiring  stay  at  his  court. 
161.  by  those  hearts :  along  with,  by  the  aid  of. 

173.  The  triumph  was  .  .  .  there  :  i.e.,  in  your  heart. 

174.  ere  the  triumph :  in  France.  • 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  245 

"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife  "  — 

Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge  !8o 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence  ;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how,  J00 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  !  " 

To  Rafael's  !  —     And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go  ! 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?)  aoo 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  so  lost,  — 

Is,  whether  you're  —  not  grateful  —  but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed  ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !     Another  smile  ? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

177.  Rafael  did  this,  .  .  .  was  his  wife  :  a  remark  ascribed  to  some  critic. 

198.  If  he  spoke  the  truth  :  i.e.,  about  himself. 

199.  What  he  :  do  you  ask? 

202.  all  I  care  for  ...  is  whether  you're. 


246  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there's  a  star ; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by.  210 

Come  from  the  window,  love,  —  come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so-  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me  :  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 

That  cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ?  220 

Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me?    Those  loans? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth? 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Virgin's  face,  23o 

Not  your's  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  potrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

209.  Morello's  gone :  its  outlines  are  lost  in  the  dusk.    See  v.  93. 

218.  That  gold  of  his  :  see  note  to  v.  146. 

220.  That  cousin  here  again  ?  one  of  Lucrezia's  gallants  is  referred  to,  to 
pay  whose  gaming  debts,  it  appears,  she  has  obtained  money  of  her  husband.  It 
must  be  understood  that  this  gallant  whistles  here.  See  last  verse  of  the  mono- 
logue. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 


247 


If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about,  240 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ?    Ah,  but  what  does  he, 

The  cousin  !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !  —  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want.  25» 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich  !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died : 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try  ! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance  —        360 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo,  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine  !     So  —  still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  cousin's  whistle  !     Go,  my  love. 
263.   Leonard  :    Leonardo  da  Vinci. 


248  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 

FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI. 

I  AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave  ! 

You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 

Zooks,  what's  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a  monk  ! 

What,  'tis  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 

And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 

Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar? 

The  Carmine's  my  cloister  :  hunt  it  up, 

Do,  —  harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 

Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 

And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse,  10 

Weke,  weke,  that's  crept  to  keep  him  company  ! 

Aha  !  you  know  your  betters  ?    Then,  you'll  take 

Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 

And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 

Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with-  a  friend 

Three  streets  off —  he's  a  certain  . . .  how  d'ye  call  ? 

Master  —  a  ...  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 

I'  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh  !  you  were  best ! 

Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you're  hanged, 

How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe  !  20 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 

Pick  up  a  manner,  nor  discredit  you  : 

Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 

And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into-  their  net  ? 

He's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 

Just  such  a  face  !     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 

Lord,  I'm  not  angry  !     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 

Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 

Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors  me 

17.  Cosimo  of  the  Medici:  Cosimo,  or  Cosmo,  de'  Medici,  surnamed  the 
Elder,  a  celebrated  Florentine  statesman,  and  a  patron  of  learning  and  the  arts ; 
b.  1389,  d,  1464. 

23.  pilchards :  a  kind  of  fish. 


FRA  LfPPO  LIPPL 


249 


(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more  beside  !)  3o 

And  all's  come  square  again.     I'd  like  his  face  — 

His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 

With  the  pike  and  lantern,  —  for  the  slave  that  holds 

John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 

With  one  hand  ("  Look  you,  now,"  as  who  should  say) 

And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped  ! 

It's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 

A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see  ! 

Yes,  I'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 

What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down,  40 

You  know  them,  and  they  take  you  ?  like  enough  ! 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye  — 

'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first.  • 

Let's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 

Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up  bands 

To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 

And  I've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 

A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 

And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night  — 

Ouf !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air.  5o 

There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 

A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song  — 

Flower  o'  the  broom, 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  ! 

Flower  o1  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since  ? 

Flower  o'  the  thyme  —  and  so  on.     Round  they  went. 

Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 

Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight,  —  three  slim  shapes, 

And  a  face  that  looked  up  ...  zooks,  sir,  flesh  and  blood,          60 

That's  all  I'm  made  of!     Into  shreds  it  went, 

Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 

All  the  bed-furniture  —  a  dozen  knots, 

34.  John  Baptist's  bead  :  an  imaginary  picture. 


250  FRA   LIPPO  LIPPL 

There  was  a  ladder  !     Down  I  let  myself, 

Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped, 

And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 

Hard  by  Saint  Lawrence,  hail  fellow,  well  met,  — 

Flower  0'  the  rose, 

If  Pve  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows? 

And  so,  as  I  was  stealing  back  again,  7o 

To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 

Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 

On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 

With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 

You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see  ! 

Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head  — 

Mirft's  shaved  —  a  monk,  you  say  —  the  sting's  in  that ! 

If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 

Mum's  the  word  naturally ;  but  a  monk  ! 

Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for?  tell  us,  now  !  80 

I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 

And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 

On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 

Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day, 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 

Old  aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand 

(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger,  as  I  knew), 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge,  90 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words  there, 

While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month  : 

"  So,  boy,  you're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat  father 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  'twas  refection-time,  — 

67.  Saint  Lawrence :  church  of  San  Lorenzo,  in  Florence,  famous  for  the 
tombs  of  the  Medici,  adorned  with  Michel  Angelo's  Day  and  Night,  Morning  and 
Evening,  etc.  See  Hawthorne's  Italian  Note-Books. 

88.  Old  aunt  Lapaccia :  Mona  Lapaccia,  his  father's  sister. 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI.  251 

"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 

Will  you  renounce  "  . . .  "  the  mouthful  of  bread?  "  thought  I ; 

By  no  means  !     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me  ; 

I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 

Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking-house, 

Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici  I00 

Have  given  their  hearts  to  —  all  at  eight  years  old. 

Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 

'Twas  not  for  nothing  —  the  good  bellyful, 

The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside  ! 

"  Let's  see  what  the  urchin's  fit  for  "  —  that  came  next. 

Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 

Such  a  to-do  !     They  tried  me  with  their  books  : 

Lord,  they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste  ! 

Flower  0'  the  clove,  IIO 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is,  "  Amo  "  I  love  f 

But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 

Eight  years  together  as  my  fortune  was, 

Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 

The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 

And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains,  — 

Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 

Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 

Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 

The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again,  120 

Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped,  — 

How  say  I  ?  —  nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 

His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 

121.  the  Eight :  gli  Otto  di  gverra,  surnamed  /'  Sanii,  the  Saints ;  a  magistracy 
composed  of  Eight  citizens,  instituted  by  the  Florentines,  during  their  war  with  the 
Church,  in  1376,  for  the  administration  of  the  city  government.     Two  were  chosen 
from  the  Signori,  three,  from  the  Kfediocri  (Middle  Classes),  and  three,  from  the 
Bassi  (Lower  Classes).     For  their  subsequent  history,  see  Le  htorie  Florentine  di 
Niccold  Machiavclli. 

122.  How  say  I  ? —  nay,  worse  than  that,  which  dog  bites,  etc. 


252 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI. 


Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 

He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 

For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 

I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use : 

I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's  marge,  130 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 

Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's, 

And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks  looked  black. 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "turn  him  out,  d'ye  say? 

In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 

WThat  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 

We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 

And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine  140 

And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be  !  " 

And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 

Thank  you  !  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls  a  blank, 

Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 

First  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 

I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean :  then,  folks  at  church, 

From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 

Their  cribs  of  barrel- droppings,  candle-ends,  — 

To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 

Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there  ISo 

With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 

Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard,  and  half 

For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 


127.   remarks :  observations. 

139.   Camaldolese  :  monks  of  the  celebrated  convent  of  Camaldoli. 
143.  Thank  you  !  there's  a  remark  interposed  here  by  one  of  the  men,  perhaps 
"you're  no  dauber,"  to  which  he  replies,  "  Thank  you." 

145  et  seq.    The  realistic  painter,  who  disdains  nothing,  is  shown  here. 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI. 


253 


Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 

Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 

(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 

After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) , 

Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head 

(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through),  came  at  eve 

On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf,  !6o 

Her  pair  of  ear-rings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 

(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was  gone. 

I  painted  all,  then  cried,  "  'Tis  ask  and  have ; 

Choose,  for  more's  ready  !  "  —  laid  the  ladder  flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 

The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 

Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 

Being  simple  bodies,  —  "  That's  the  very  man  ! 

Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog  ! 

That  woman's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes  I7o 

To  care  about  his  asthma :  it's  the  life  !  " 

But  there  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked ; 

Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 

The  prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 

And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.     "  How  ?  what's  here  ? 

Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! 

Faces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 

As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it's  devil's  game  ! 

Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 

With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay,  X8o 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 

Make  them  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 

Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men  — 

Man's  soul,  and  it's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  .  no,  it's  not  .  .  . 

It's  vapor  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe  — 

(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth), 

It's  .  .  .  well,  what  matters  talking,  it's  the  soul ! 

Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 


FRA   LfPPO  LIPPI. 

Here's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 

That  sets  us  praising,  —  why  not  stop  with  him  ?  I9o 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what  not? 

Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms  ! 

Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time  ! 

Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 

She's  just  my  niece  . . .  Herodias,  I  would  say,  — 

Who  went  and  danced,  and  got  men's  heads  cut  off! 

Have  it  all  out !  "     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask? 

A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 

So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further  200 

And  can't  fare  worse  !     Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow's  simply  black, 

And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 

When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 

Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 

Both  in  their  order?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 

The  Prior's  niece  . . .  patron-saint  —  is  it  so  pretty 

You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear,  2IO 

Sorrow  or  joy  ?  won't  beauty  go  with  these  ? 

Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 

Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 

And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold? 

Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all  — 

(I  never  saw  it  —  put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents  : 

That's  somewhat :  and  you'll  find  the  soul  you  have  missed, 

Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks.  220 

189.  Giotto  di  Bondone  (1266-1337)  :  a  pupil  of  Cimabue,  and  regarded  as 
the  principal  reviver  of  art  in  Italy.  He  was  a  personal  friend  of  Dante.  See  note 
under  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  St.  2. 


FRA  UPPO  LIPPI. 


255 


"  Rub  all  out !  "     Well,  well,  there's  my  life,  in  short, 

And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 

I'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I've  broken  bounds : 

You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 

And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 

I'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please  — 

Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house  ! 

Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front  — 

Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 

To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  !  230 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave  eyes 

Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work, 

The  heads  shake  still  —  "  It's  art's  decline,  my  son  ! 

You're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old ; 

Brother  Angelico's  the  man,  you'll  find ; 

223.  I'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I've  broken  bounds :  all  the  editions 
are  so  punctuated ;  but  it  seems  the  comma  should  be  after  "  man,"  connecting  "  no 
doubt "  with  "  I've  broken  bounds." 

235.  "  Giovanni  da  Fiesole,  better  known  as  Fra  Angelico  (1387-1455).  Angelico 
was  incomparably  the  greatest  of  the  distinctively  mediaeval  school,  whose  dicta  the 
Prior  in  the  poem  has  all  at  his  tongue's  end.  To  '  paint  the  souls  of  men,'  to 
'make  them  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  flesh,'  was  the  end  of  his  art.  And,  side 
by  side  with  Angelico,  Masaccio  painted.  His  short  life  taught  him  a  different 
lesson  — '  the  value  and  significance  of  flesh.'  He  would  paint  by  preference  the 
bodies  of  men,  and  would  give  us  no  more  of  soul  than  the  body  can  reveal.  So 
he  '  laboured,'  saith  the  chronicler,  '  in  nakeds,'  and  his  frescoes  mark  an  epoch 
in  art."  —  Ernest  Bradford  (B.  S.  Illustrations). 

"  One  artist  in  the  seclusion  of  his  cloister,  remained  true  to  the  traditions  and 
mode  of  expression  of  the  middle  ages,  into  which,  nevertheless,  the  incomparable 
beauty  and  feeling  of  his  nature  breathed  fresh  life.  Fra  Giovanni  Angelico,  called 
da  Fiesole  from  the  place  of  his  birth,  occupies  an  entirely  exceptional  position. 
He  is  the  late-blooming  flower  of  an  almost  by-gone  time  amid  the  pulsations  of 
a  new  life.  Never,  in  the  whole  range  of  pictorial  art,  have  the  inspired  fervor 
of  Christian  feeling,  the  angelic  beauty  and  purity  of  which  the  soul  is  capable, 
been  so  gloriously  interpreted  as  in  his  works.  The  exquisite  atmosphere  of  an 
almost  supernaturally  ideal  life  surrounds  his  pictures,  irradiates  the  rosy  features 
of  his  youthful  faces,  or  greets  us,  like  the  peace  of  God,  in  the  dignified  figii 
his  devout  old  men.  His  prevailing  thrmos  air  the  humility  of  soul  of  those  who 
have  joyfully  accepted  the  will  of  God,  and  the  tranquil  Sabbath  calm  of  those  who 
*re  lovingly  consecrated  to  the  service  of  the  Highest.  The  movement  and  the 


256  FRA  L1PPO  LIPPI. 

Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer : 

Fag  on  at  flesh,  you'll  never  make  the  third  !  " 

Flower  d*  the  pine, 

You  keep  your  mistr  . .  .  manners,  and  I'll  stick  to  mine  f 

I'm  not  the  third,  then  :  bless  us,  they  must  know  !  240 

Don't  you  think  they're  the  likeliest  to  know, 

They  with  their  Latin  ?     So,  I  swallow  my  rage, 

Clinch  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 

To  please  them — sometimes  do,  and  sometimes  don't; 

For,  doing  most,  there's  pretty  sure  to  come 

A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints  — 

A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world  — 

(Flower  o1  the  peach, 

Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each  /) 

And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over,  250 

The  world  and  life's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 

And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 

And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 

In  pure  rage  !     The  old  mill- horse,  out  at  grass 

After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 

Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 

The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 

What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  like  grass  or  no  — 

May  they  or  mayn't  they?  all  I  want's  the  tiling 

Settled  forever  one  way.     As  it  is,  260 

You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself : 

You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 

You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 

You  find  abundantly  detestable. 

changing  course  of  life,  the  energy  of  passion  and  action  concern  him  not."  — 
Outlines  of  the  History  of  Art.  By  Dr.  Wilh.  Lubke. 

236.  Lorenzo  Monaco :  a  monk  of  the  order  of  Camaldoli ;  a  conservative 
artist  of  the  time,  who  adhered  to  the  manner  of  Taddeo  Gaddi  and  his  disciples, 
but  Fra  Angelico  appears  likewise  to  have  influenced  him. 

238.  Flower  o'  the  pine,  etc. :  this  snatch  of  song  applies  to  what  he  has  just 
been  talking  about:  you  have.your  own  notions  of  art,  and  I  have  mine. 


FRA   UPPO  LIPPI.  357 

For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught ; 

I  always  see  the  garden,  and  God  there 

A- making  man's  wife  :  and,  my  lesson  learned, 

The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 

I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me  :  I'm  a  beast,  I  know.  *70 

But  see,  now  —  why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star's  about  to  shine, 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We've  a  youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop  : 
His  name  is  Guidi — he'll  not  mind  the  monks  — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk  — 
He  picks  my  practice  up  —  he'll  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so — though  I  never  live  so  long, 
I  know  what's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge  !  280 

You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike ; 
However,  you're  my  man,  you've  seen  the  world 

276.  Tommaso  Guidi  (1401-1428),  better  known  as  Masaccio,  i.e.,  Tom- 
masaccio,  Slovenly  or  Hulking  Tom.  "  From  his  time,  and  forward,"  says  Mr. 
Ernest  Radford  (B.  S.  Illustrations),  "  religious  painting  in  the  old  sense  was  at  an 
end.  Painters  no  longer  attempted  to  transcend  nature,  but  to  copy  her,  and  to 
copy  her  in  her  loveliest  aspects.  The  breach  between  the  old  order  and  the  new 
was  complete."  The  poet  makes  him  learn  of  Lippi,  not,  as  Vasari  states,  Lippi  of 
him. 

"  When  Browning  wrote  this  poem,  he  knew  that  the  mastership  or  pupilship  of 
Fra  Lippo  to  Masaccio  (called  '  Guidi '  in  the  poem),  and  vice  versa,  was  a  moot 
point ;  but  in  making  Fra  Lippi  the  master,  he  followed  the  best  authority  he  had 
access  to,  the  last  edition  of  Vasari,  as  he  stated  in  a  Letter  to  the  Pall  Afall  at  the 
time,  in  answer  to  M.  Etienne  [a  writer  in  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes\.  Since 
then,  he  finds  that  the  latest  enquirer  into  the  subject,  Morelli,  believes  the  fact  is 
the  other  way,  and  that  Fra  Lippo  was  the  pupil."  —  D.  Soc.  Papers,  Pt.  II.,  p.  160. 

The  letter  to  the  Pall  A  fall  Gazette  I  have  not  seen.  M.  Etienne's  Article  is  in 
Tome  85,  pp.  704-735,  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  1870,  and  the  letter  proba- 
bly appeared  soon  after  its  publication.  \Vhat  edition  of  Vasari  is  referred  to,  in 
the  above  note,  as  the  last,  is  uncertain  ;  but  in  Vasari's  own  editions  of  1550  and 
1568,  and  in  Mrs.  Foster's  translation,  1855,  Lippi  is  made  the  pupil,  and  not  the 
master,  of  Masaccio. 


258  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPf. 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 

The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights,  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all ! 

—  For  what  ?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 

These  are  the  frame  to  ?     What's  it  all  about  ?  290 

To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon, 

Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last  of  course  !  —  you  say. 

But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  —  paint  these 

Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  ? 

God's  works  —  paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 

To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His  works 

Are  here  already ;  nature  is  complete  : 

Suppose  you  reproduce  her —  (which  you  can't) 

There's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat  her,  then." 

For,  don't  you  mark  ?  we're  made  so  that  we  love  30o 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see  ; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted  —  better  to  us, 

Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that ; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face  ?     A  bit  of  chalk, 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  !     How  much  more 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth  ! 

That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place,  3io 

Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !     Oh,  oh, 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves  !     This  world's  no  blot  for  us, 

Nor  blank ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  : 

To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

"  Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer  !  " 

Strikes  in  the  Prior  :  "  when  your  meaning's  plain 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 


259 


It  does  not  say  to  folks  —  remember  matins, 

Or,  mind  your  fast  next  Friday  !  "     Why,  for  this 

What  need  of  art  at  all  ?    A  skull  and  bones,  32C 

Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise,  or,  what's  best, 

A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 

I  painted  a  Saint  Laurence  six  months  since 

At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style  : 

"  How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold's  down  ?  " 

I  ask  a  brother  :  "  Hugely,"  he  returns  — 

"  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 

Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

But's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own  33o 

With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage  : 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd  — 

Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  !  "     Hang  the  fools  ! 

—  That  is  —  you'll  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  Got  wot, 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine  ! 
Oh,  the  church  knows  !  don't  misreport  me,  now  !  340 

It's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself: 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me  :  I  shall  paint  a  piece 
. . .  There's  for  you  !     Give  me  six  months,  then  go,  see 

323.  Saint  Laurence:  suffered  martydom  in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Vale- 
rian, A.I).  258.  He  was  broiled  to  death  on  a  gridiron. 

327.  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves  . .  .  but's  scratched  : 
the  people  are  so  indignant  at  what  they  are  doing,  in  the  life-like  picture. 

336.   That  is  — :  he  fears  he  has  spoken  too  plainly,  and  will  be  reported. 

339.   Chianti :  a  wine  named  from  the  part  of  Italy  so  called. 

345.  There's  for  you  :  ho  tips  them. 


26o  FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI. 

Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's  !     Bless  the  nuns  ! 

They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall  paint 

God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 

Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 

Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet  35o 

As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 

When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 

And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two  — 

Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 

Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 

The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day, 

And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 

The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  z, 

Painters  who  need  his  patience) .     Well,  all  these 

Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come  36o 

Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect, 

As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 

Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  !     I  !  — 

Mazed,  motionless,  and  moon-struck  —  I'm  the  man  ! 

Back  I  shrink  —  what  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ? 

I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things  by  mistake, 

My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company  ! 

Where's  a  hole,  where's  a  corner  for  escape  ? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing  370 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm  —  "  Not  so  fast !  " 

—  Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "  nay  — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though  he's  none  of  you  !  could  Saint  John  there,  draw  — 

His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting-brush  ? 

We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 

346.   Sant'  Ambrogio's  :  a  convent  in  Florence. 

354.  Saint  John  :  John  the  Baptist  is  meant ;  see  v.  375. 

355.  Saint  Ambrose :  born  about  340 ;  made  archbishop  of  Milan  in  374 ; 
died  397 ;  instituted  the  Ambrosian  Chant. 


A  FACE.  26l 

Iste  perfect t  opus  !  "     So,  all  smile  — 

I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 

Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 

Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you're  gay  38o 

And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 

Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 

The  hot-head  husband  !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 

To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 

The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 

That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 

Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 

And  so  all's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 

A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence  ! 

Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-bye  :  no  lights,  no  lights  !  390 

The  street's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back, 

Don't  fear  me  !    There's  the  gray  beginning.     Zooks  ! 


A  FACE. 

IF  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers  ! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile ;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all :  but  rather  as  if  aloft 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its  staffs 

377.  Iste  perfecit  opus !  this  is  on  a  scroll,  in  the  picture,  held  by  the  "  sweet 
angelic  slip  of  a  thing." 

389.  The  picture  referred  to  is  The  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  in  the  Accademia 
delle  Belle  Arti,  in  Florence.  There  is  a  photograph  of  it  in  Illustrations  to  Broum- 
ing'i  Poems,  Part  I.,  published  by  the  Browning  Society,  with  an  interesting  de- 
scription of  the  picture,  by  Mr.  Ernest  Radford.  There's  no  "  babe  "  in  the  picture. 

392.  Zooks  !  it's  high  time  I  was  back  and  in  bed,  that  my  night-larking  be  not 
known. 

i.  If  one  could  have  :  Oh,  if  one  could  only  have,  etc. 


262  THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB 

Burthen  of  honey-colored  buds,  to  kiss 

And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround, 

How  it  should  waver,  on  the  pale  gold  ground, 

Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts  ! 

I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 

Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 

Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb  : 

But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should  think, 

Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 

Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 

(That's  the  pale  ground  you'd  see  this  sweet  face  by) , 

All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one  eye 

Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS   HIS  TOMB  AT  SAINT 
PRAXED'S  CHURCH. 

[ROME,  15 — .] 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  ! 

Draw  round  my  bed  :  is  Anselm  keeping  back  ? 

Nephews  —  sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not !    Well  — 

She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 

Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 

9,  10.  to  kiss  and  capture  :  gerundives :  to  be  kissed  and  captured. 

14.  Correggio :  Antonio  Allegri  da  Correggio,  born  1494,  died  1534.  "  He 
was  the  first  master — the  Venetians  notwithstanding  —  to  take  a  scheme  of  color 
and  chiaro-scuro  as  the  raison  d'etre  of  a  complete  composition,  and  his  brush, 
responding  to  the  idea,  blends  light  and  shade  in  delicious  harmony."  —  Woltmann 
and  Woermann's  History  of  Painting. 

The  tomb  is  imaginary ;  though  it  is  said  to  be  pointed  out  to  visitors  to  Saint 
Praxed's  who  desire  particularly  to  see  it. 

i.  Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity !  "  The  Bishop  on  his  death-bed  has 
reached  Solomon's  conclusion  that '  all  is  vanity.'  So  he  proceeds  to  specify  his 
particular  vanity  in  the  choice  of -a  tombstone."  —  N.  Brit,  Jfev.^p.  367.  "In 


AT  SAINT  PR  AX  ED'S  CHURCH.  263 

What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 

And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 

And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it?     As  here  I  lie  10 

In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 

Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 

"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?  "    Peace,  peace  seems  all. 

Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace ; 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.     I  fought 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know : 

—  Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care ; 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same  ! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence  ao 

One  sees  the  pulpit  on  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk ; 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands  : 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

The  Palace  of  Art,  Mr.  Tennyson  has  shown  the  despair  and  isolation  of  a  soul  sur- 
rounded by  all  luxuries  of  beauty,  and  living  in  and  for  them  ;  but  in  the  end  the 
soul  is  redeemed  and  converted  to  the  simple  humanities  of  earth.  Mr.  Browning 
has  shown  that  such  a  sense  of  isolation  and  such  despair  are  by  no  means  inevita- 
ble; there  is  a  death  in  life  which  consists  in  tranquil  satisfaction,  a  calm  pride  in 
the  soul's  dwelling  among  the  world's  gathered  treasures  of  stateliness  and  beauty. 
...  So  the  unbelieving  and  worldly  spirit  of  the  dying  Bishop,  who  orders  his 
tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's,  his  sense  of  the  vanity  of  the  world  simply  because  the 
world  is  passing  out  of  his  reach,  the  regretful  memory  of  the  pleasures  of  his  youth. 
tin-  rnvious  spite  towards  Gandolf,  who  robbed  him  of  the  best  position  for  a  tomb, 
and  the  dread  lest  his  reputed  sons  should  play  him  false  and  fail  to  carry  out  his 
designs,  are  united  with  a  perfect  appreciation  of  Renaissance  art,  and  a  luxurious 
satisfaction,  which  even  a  death-bod  cannot  destroy,  in  the  splendor  of  voluptuous 
form  and  color."  —  Edward  Doiudcn, 


264  THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse.  3o 

—  Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 

Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him  !     True  peach, 
Rosy  and  flawless  :  how  I  earned  the  prize  ! 
Draw  close  :  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

—  What  then  ?    So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed  ! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?     Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 

And  if  ye  find  ...     Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I !  .  .  . 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft,  4o 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst !  sa 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years  : 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 

Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?     Black  — 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant !     How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath  ? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

46.  Frascati:  a  town  of  central  Italy,  near  the  site  of  the  ancient  Tusculum, 
ten  or  twelve  miles  S.  E.  of  Rome ;  it  has  many  fine  old  villas. 

53.  Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons?  Note  how  all  things  else,  even 
such  reflections  as  are  expressed  in  the  two  preceding  verses,  are  incidental  with 
the  Bishop ;  his  poor,  art-besotted  mind  turns  abruptly  to  the  black  basalt  which 
he  craves  for  the  slab  of  his  tomb ;  and  see  vv.  101,  102, 


AT  SAINT  PR 'AXED' <S  CHURCH.  26$ 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan  60 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  *but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not !     What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at ! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me  —  all  of  jasper,  then  ! 

Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas  !  70 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world  — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs  ? 

— That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf 's  second  line  — 

Tully,  my  masters  ?     Ulpian  serves  his  need  ! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries,  80 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle- flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke  ! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 


66.  travertine  :  see  note  to  v.  67  of  Picfor  Ignotus. 

71.   pistachio-nut,  or  green  almond. 

79.  Ulpian:  Domitius  Ulpianus,  one  of  the  greatest  of  Roman  jurists,  and 
chief  adviser  of  the  emperor,  Alexander  Severus ;  born  about  170,  died  228;  belongs 
to  the  Brazen  age  of  Roman  literature. 


266  THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB. 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work  :  90 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  hifmming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals,  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

—  Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our  friend  ? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best !  100 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons  !     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas  !     Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  visor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down,  no 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ?  "     There,  leave  me,  there  ! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death  :  ye  wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish  it !     Stone  — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble  !     Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world  ! 

Well  go  !     I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there, 

95.  Saint  Praxed.  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount :  the  poor  dying  Bishop, 
in  the  disorder  of  his  mind,  makes  a  lapsus  lingua  here;  see  v.  59. 

09.  elucescebat :  "  he  was  beginning  to  shine  forth  ;  "  a  late  Latin  word  not 
found  in  the  Ciceronian  vocabulary,  and  therefore  condemned  by  the  Bishop ;  this 
word  is,  perhaps,  what  is  meant  by  the  "  gaudy  ware  "  in  the  second  line  of  Gan- 
do!f  s  epitaph,  referred  to  in  v.  78. 


A   TOCCATA   OF  GALUPPPS.  267 

But  in  a  row  :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs  120 

—  Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers  — 

Old  Gandolf,  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 


A  TOCCATA  OF   GALUPPI'S. 

i. 

OH  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find  ! 

I  can  hardly  misconceive  you ;  it  would  prove  me  deaf  and  blind  ; 

But,  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such  a  heavy  mind  ! 

2. 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all  the  good  it 
brings. 

What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants  were 
the  kings, 

Where  Saint  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea  with 
rings  ? 

3- 

Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there ;   and  'tis  arched  by  ... 
what  you  call 

.  .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they  kept  the  car- 
nival : 

I  was  never  out  of  England —  it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 

St.  i.  Galuppi,  Baldassaro  (rather  Baldassare)  :  b.  1703,  in  Burano,  an 
island  near  Venice,  anil  thence  called  Buranello ;  d.  1785;  a  distinguished  com- 
poser, whose  operas,  about  fifty  in  number,  and  mostly  comic,  were  at  one  time 
the  most  popular  in  Italy;  Galuppi  is  regarded  as  the  father  of  the  Italian  comic 
opera. 

St.  2.  Saint  Mark's :  see  Ruskin's  description  of  this  glorious  basilica,  in 
The  Stones  of  Venice. 


268  A   TOCCATA   OF  GALUPPPS. 

4- 
Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was  warm  in 

May? 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  mid-day, 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow,  do  you  say? 

5- 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red,  — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on  its  bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might  base  his 
head? 

6. 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them  :  they'd  break  talk  off  and  afford 
—  She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he,  to  finger  on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord  ? 

7- 
What?    Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished,  sigh 

on  sigh, 
Told   them    something?     Those   suspensions,   those   solutions  — 

"Must  we  die?" 

Those  commiserating  sevenths  — "  Life  might  last !  we  can  but 
try!" 

8. 

"Were  you  happy?"  —  "Yes."  —  "And  are  you  still  as  happy?" 
—  "Yes.     And  you?" 

St  6.  Toccatas :  the  Toccata  was  a  form  of  musical  composition  for  the  organ 
or  harpsichord,  somewhat  in  the  free  and  brilliant  style  of  the  modern  fantasia  or 
capriccio ;  clavichord:  "a  keyed  stringed  instrument,  now  superseded  by  the 
pianoforte."  —  Webster. 

St.  7.  The  musical  technicalities  used  in  this  stanza,  any  musician  can  explain 
and  illustrate. 

St.  8.  The  questions  in  this  stanza  must  be  supposed  to  be  caused  by  the  effect 
upon  the  revellers  of  the  "  plaintive  lesser  thirds,"  the  "  diminished  sixths,"  the 
"  commiserating  sevenths,"  etc.,  of  the  preceding  stanza. 


A   TOCCATA   OF  GALUPPPS.  269 

—  "Then,  more  kisses!"  —  "Did  /stop  them,  when  a  million 

seemed  so  few?" 
Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  answered  to  ! 

9- 
So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     Oh,  they  praised  you,  I  dare 

say  ! 

"  Brave  Galuppi  !  that  was  music  !  good  alike  at  grave  and  gay  ! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master  play  !  " 

10. 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due  time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as  well 

undone, 

Death  stepped  tacitly,  and  took  them  where  they  never  see  the 
sun. 

ii. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand  nor  swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close  reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep  through  every  nerve. 

12. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house  was  burned  : 
"  Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent  what  Venice 

earned. 
The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal  —  where  a  soul  can  be  discerned." 


"  Yours  for  instance  :  you  know  physics,  something  of  geology, 
Mathematics  are  your  pastime  ;  souls  shall  rise  in  their  degree  ; 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction,  —  you'll  not  die,  it  cannot  be  ! 

St.  ii.  While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close 
reserve  :  the  secret  of  the  soul's  immortality. 

St.  13.  The  idea  is  involved  in  this  stanza  that  the  soul's  continued  existence  is 
dependent  on  its  development  in  this  life;  the  ironic  character  of  the  stanza 
is  indicated  by  the  merely  intellectual  subjects  named,  physics,  geology,  mathe- 


2/O 


ABT  VOGLER. 


"  As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and  drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly  were  the 

crop  : 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had  to  stop  ? 


"  Dust  and  ashes  !  "     So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the  heart  to 

scold. 
Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too  —  what's  become  of  all  the 

gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ?     I  feel  chilly  and  grown 

old. 


ABT  VOGLER. 

(AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN  EXTEMPORIZING  UPON  THE  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 
OF  HIS  INVENTION.) 

i. 

WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solomon 
willed 

matics,  which  do  not  of  themselves,  necessarily,  contribute  to  ^^/-development. 
All  from  the  2d  verse  of  the  I2th  stanza  down  to  "  Dust  and  ashes  "  in  the  I5th,  is 
what  the  music,  "  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house  was  burned,"  says 
to  the  speaker,  in  the  monologue,  of  the  men  and  women  for  whom  life  meant 
simply  a  butterfly  enjoyment. 

St.  i.  The  leading  sentence,  "  Would  that  the  structure  brave,"  etc.,  is  inter- 
rupted by  the  comparison,  "  as  when  Solomon  willed,"  etc.,  and  continued  in  the 
ad  stanza,  "  Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,"  etc. ;  the  construction  of  the  comparison 
is,  "  as  when  Solomon  willed  that  armies  of  angels,  legions  of  devils,  etc.,  should 
rush  into  sight  and  pile  him  a  palace  straight  " ;  the  reference  is  to  the  legends  of 
the  Koran  in  regard  to  Solomon's  magical  posvers. 


ABT  VOGLER.  2/1 

Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly,  —  alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep  removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable  Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he 
loved  ! 

2. 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 

This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and   importuned  to 

raise  ! 

Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and  now 
combine, 

Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his  praise ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to  hell, 

Burrow  a  while  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace  well, 

Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

St.  2.  the  beautiful  building  of  mine  :  "  Of  all  our  senses,  hearing  seems 
to  be  the  most  poetical ;  and  because  it  requires  most  imagination.  We  do  not 
simply  listen  to  sounds,  but  whether  they  be  articulate  or  inarticulate,  we  are  con- 
stantly translating  them  into  the  language  of  sight,  with  which  we  are  better 
acquainted  ;  and  this  is  a  work  of  the  imaginative  faculty."  —  Poetics  :  an  Essay  on 
Poetry.  By  E.  S.  Dallas. 

The  idea  expressed  in  the  above  extract  is  beautifully  embodied  in  the  following 
lines  from  Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan  :  — 

"  It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome,  with  caves  of  ice! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
/would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!   those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there,"  etc. 


2/2 


ABT  VOGLER. 


3- 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent  minion 

he  was, 

Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night  — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my  soul  was 
in  sight. 

4- 
In  sight  ?     Not  half !  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match  man's 

birth, 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to  reach  the 

earth, 

As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the  sky : 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with  mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found,  but  fixed  its  wandering  star ; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near  nor 
far. 

5- 
Nay  more  ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare  and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place ;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at  last ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the  body 

and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth  their 

new : 

What  never  had  been,  was  now ;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon ; 
And  what  is,  —  shall  I  say,  matched   both  ?   for  I  was   made 
perfect  too. 


ABT  VOGLER. 


6. 


273 


All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 

All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I  painted  the  whole, 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder-worth. 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse  —  still,  effect  proceeds  from 
cause, 

Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is  told ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 

Painter  and  poet  are  proud,  in  the  artist-list  enrolled  :  — 


But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws  :  that  made  them,  and,  lo,  they  are  ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but  a 

star. 
Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught ; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world  —  loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought, 

And,  there  !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :  consider  and  bow  the 
head! 

8. 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared ; 

Gone  !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too  slow ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 

That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :  is  this  your  comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God :  ay,  what  was, 
shall  be. 


274 


ABT  VOGLER. 


9- 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Name  ? 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands  ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same  ? 

Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost   good  !     What  was,  shall   live   as 
before ; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound ; 
What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good  more ; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs ;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect  round. 

10. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good,  shall  exist ; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist, 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard ; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once :  we  shall  hear  it  by-and-by. 


And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days  ?     Have  we  withered  or  agonized  ? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue 
thence  ? 

St.  ii.  And  what  is  our  failure  here:  "  As  long  as  effort  is  directed  to  the 
highest,  that  aim,  though  it  is  out  of  reach,  is  the  standard  of  hope.  The  existence 
of  a  capacity, 'cherished  and  quickened,  is  a  pledge  that  it  will  find  scope.  The 
punishment  of  the  man  who  has  fixed  all  his  thoughts  upon  earth,  a  punishment 
felt  on  reflection  to  be  overwhelming  in  view  of  possibilities  of  humanity,  is  the 
completes!  gratification  of  desires  unworthily  limited :  — 

"  '  Thou  art  shut 
Out  of  the  heaven  of  spirit;  glut 
Thy  sense  upon  the  world:  'tis  thine 
For  ever  —  take  it!  '  (Easter  Day,  xx.). 

On  the  other  hand,  the  soul  which  has  found  in  success  not  rest  but  a  starting- 


"TOUCH  HIM  NE'ER  SO  LIGHTLY."  2?$ 

Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  harmony  should  be  prized  ? 
Sorro-,v  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe  : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear ; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  ;  'tis  we  musicians  know. 

12. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me  ;  silence  resumes  her  reign  : 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor,  —  yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Surveying  a  while  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep ; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is  found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life  :  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 


"TOUCH   HIM   NE'ER  SO   LIGHTLY."1 

[EPILOGUE  TO  DRAMATIC  IDYLS.    SECOND  SERIES.] 

"  TOUCH  him  ne'er  so  lightly,  into  song  he  broke  : 
Soil  so  quick-receptive,  —  not  one  feather-seed, 
Not  one  flower  dust  fell  but  straight  its  fall  awoke 

point,  which  refuses  to  see  in  the  first-fruits  of  a  partial  victory  the  fulness  of  its 
rightful  triumph,  has  ever  before  it  a  sustaining  and  elevating  vision  :  — 

"  '  What  stops  my  despair? 
This:  —  'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but  what  man  Would  do!  '  (Saul,  xviii.). 

"  '  What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me; 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale.'  "  (Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  7). 
—  Rev.  Prof.  Westcott  an  Browning's  l^'i'ew  of  Life 
(Browning  Sac,  Papers,  iv.,  405,  406). 

1  See  Pages  from  an  Album,  in  The  Century  Illustrated  Monthly  Magazine  {Scrib- 
ner's),  for  November,  1882,  pp.  159,  160,  where  is  given  a  fac-simile  of  the  poet's 
Ms.  of  these  verses  and  of  the  ten  verses  he  afterwards  added,  in  response,  it  seems, 
to  a  carping  critic. 


276  MEMORABILIA. 

Vitalizing  virtue  :  song  would  song  succeed 
Sudden  as  spontaneous  — prove  a  poet-soul !  " 

Indeed  ? 

Rock's  the  song-soil  rather,  surface  hard  and  bare  : 
Sun  and  dew  their  mildness,  storm  and  frost  their  rage_ 
Vainly  both  expend,  —  few  flowers  awaken  there  : 
Quiet  in  its  cleft  broods  —  what  the  after  age 
Knows  and  names  a  pine,  a  nation's  heritage. 


MEMORABILIA, 
i. 

AH,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new  ! 

2. 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after ; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter  ! 

3- 
I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 

And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt, 
Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 

'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 

4- 
For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  ! 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY. 


277 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY. 

I  ONLY  knew  one  poet  in  my  life  : 

And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  his  way. 

You  saw  go  up  and  down  Valladolid, 
A  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though  none  did  : 
The  cloak,  that  somewhat  shone  and  showed  the  threads, 
Had  purpose,  and  the  ruff,  significance. 
He  walked,  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cane, 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face  : 
An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels. 
They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by  the  church, 
That  leads  no  whither ;  now,  they  breathed  themselves 
On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the  wrong  time. 
You'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat, 
Making  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than  itself 
Against  the  single  window  spared  some  house 
Intact  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moorish  work,  — 
Or  else  surprise  the  ferrel  of  his  stick 
Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween  the  chinks  ' 
Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French  and  fine. 
He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 
The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 
The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 
That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its  winch. 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 
And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 
And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 
He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things, 
If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw  ; 
If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note ; 


278  HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY. 

Yet  stared  at  nobody,  —  you  stared  at  him, 

And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than  surprise, 

He  seemed  to  know  you  and  expect  as  much. 

So,  next  time  that  a  neighbor's  tongue  was  loosed, 

It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious  fact, 

We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a  spy, 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town  but  knew  ! 

We  merely  kept  a  governor  for  form, 

While  this  man  walked  about  and  took  account 

Of  all  thought,  said  and  acted,  then  went  home, 

And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the  King 

Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  he  knows  why, 

And  reads  them  in  his  bedroom  of  a  night. 

Oh,  you  might  smile  !  there  wanted  not  a  touch, 

A  tang  of  ...  well,  it  was  not  wholly  ease, 

As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's  look  came. 

Stricken  in  years  a  little,  such  a  brow 

His  eyes  had  to  live  under  !  —  clear  as  flint 

On  either  side  o'  the  formidable  nose 

Curved,  cut  and  colored  like  an  eagle's  claw. 

Had  he  to  do  with  A.'s  surprising  fate  ? 

When  altogether  old  B.  disappeared, 

And  young  C.  got  his  mistress,  —  was't  our  friend, 

His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it  all? 

What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so  much  pains? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favorites  manifold, 

And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a  month ; 

Our  city  gets  new  governors  at  whiles,  — 

But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could  hear, 

Notified,  to  this  man  about  the  streets, 

The  King's  approval  of  those  letters  conned 

The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of  night. 

Did  the  man  love  his  office  ?     Frowned  our  Lord, 

Exhorting  when  none  heard  —  "  Beseech  me  not ! 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY.  279 

Too  far  above  my  people,  —  beneath  me  ! 
I  set  the  watch,  —  how  should  the  people  know  ? 
Forget  them,  keep  me  all  the  more  in  mind  ! " 
Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt  the  two? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at  least  — 
That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home,  down  lanes 
Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to  pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his  supper  in  a  room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on  the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his  plate  ! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of  life 
In  that  new  stuccoed  third  house  by  the  bridge, 
Fresh-painted,  rather  smart  than  otherwise  ! 
The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him  as  he  sat, 
Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's  back, 
Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his  maid 
(Jacynth,  you're  sure  her  name  was)  o'er  the  cheese 
And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved  winter-pears, 
Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April.     Nine, 
Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight  to  bed  went  he. 

My  father,  like  the  man  of  sense  he  was, 
Would  point  him  out  to  me  a  dozen  times ; 
"  St  — St,"  he'd  whisper,  "  the  Corregidor  !  " 
I  had  been  used  to  think  that  personage 
Was  one  with  lacquered  breeches,  lustrous  belt, 
And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 
Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed  the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each  church  its  turn, 
And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue  ! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us  boys  ; 
We  were  in  error ;  that  was  not  the  man. 

I'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid, 
To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man  came  to  die, 


28o  "TRANSCENDENTALISM." 

And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret  sides, 

And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed, 

With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 

Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in-chief, 

Thro'  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  death, 

Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 

In  his  old  coat  and  up  to  knees  in  mud, 

Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a  crust,  — 

And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once  ! 

No  further  show  or  need  of  that  old  coat, 

You  are  sure,  for  one  thing  !     Bless  us,  all  the  while 

How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  I ! 

A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that. 

Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse,  —  could  you  ? 

Let's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time. 


"TRANSCENDENTALISM  " : 

A  POEM  IN  TWELVE  BooKS.1 

STOP  playing,  poet !     May  a  brother  speak  ? 

'Tis  you  speak,  that's  your  error.     Song's  our  art : 

Whereas  you  please  to  speak  these  naked  thoughts 

Instead  of  draping  them  in  sights  and  sounds. 

—  True  thoughts,  good  thoughts,  thoughts  fit  to  treasure  up  ! 

But  why  such  long  prolusion  and  display, 

Such  turning  and  adjustment  of  the  harp, 

And  taking  it  upon  your  breast,  at  length, 

Only  to  speak  dry  words  across  its  strings  ? 

Stark-naked  thought  is  in  request  enough  :  I0 

1  Transcendentalism:  a  poem  in  twelve  books.  It  must  be  understood  that 
the  poet  addressed  has  written  a  long  poem  under  this  title,  and  a  brother-poet, 
while  admitting  that  it  contains  "true  thoughts,  good  thoughts,  thoughts  fit  to  treas- 
ure up,"  raises  the  objection  that  they  are  naked,  instead  of  being  draped,  as  they 
should  be,  in  sights  and  sounds. 


• '  TRANSCENDENTALISM."  28 1 

Speak  prose  and  hollo  it  till  Europe  hears  ! 

The  six-foot  Swiss  tube,  braced  about  with  bark, 

Which  helps  the  hunter's  voice  from  Alp  to  Alp  — 

Exchange  our  harp  for  that,  —  who  hinders  you  ? 

But  here's  your  fault ;  grown  men  want  thought,  you  think ; 

Thought's  what  they  mean  by  verse,  and  seek  in  verse ; 

Boys  seek  for  images  and  melody, 

Men  must  have  reason  —  so,  you  aim  at  men. 

Quite  otherwise  !     Objects  throng  our  youth,  'tis  true ; 

We  see  and  hear  and  do  not  wonder  much  :  20 

If  you  could  tell  us  what  they  mean,  indeed  ! 

As  German  Boehme  never  cared  for  plants 

Until  it  happed,  a-walking  in  the  fields, 

He  noticed  all  at  once  that  plants  could  speak, 

Nay,  turned  with  loosened  tongue  to  talk  with  him. 

That  day  the  daisy  had  an  eye  indeed  — 

Colloquized  with  the  cowslip  on  such  themes  ! 

We  find  them  extant  yet  in  Jacob's  prose. 

But  by  the  time  youth  slips  a  stage  or  two 

While  reading  prose  in  that  tough  book  he  wrote,  30 

(Collating  and  emendating  the  same 

And  settling  on  the  sense  most  to  our  mind) 

We  shut  the  clasps  and  find  life's  summer  past. 

Then,  who  helps  more,  pray,  to  repair  our  loss  — 

22.  German  Boehme :  Jacob  Boehme  (or  Behmen).  a  shoemaker  and  a 
famous  theosophist,  b.  1575,  at  Old  Seidenberg,  a  village  near  Gorlitz;  d.  1624.  The 
24th  verse  of  the  poem,  "  He  noticed  all  at  once  that  plants  could  speak,"  may  refer 
to  a  remarkable  experience  of  Boehme,  related  in  Dr.  Hans  Lassen  Martensen's 
Jacob  Boehme  :  his  life  and  teaching,  or  studies  in  theosophy :  translated  from  the 
Danish  by  T.  Rhys  Evans,  London,  1885:  "Sitting  one  day  in  his  room,  his  eye 
fell  upon  a  burnished  pewter  dish,  which  reflected  the  sunshine  with  such  marvel- 
lous splendor  that  he  fell  into  an  inward  ecstasy,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
could  now  look  into  the  principles  and  deepest  foundations  of  things.  He  believed 
that  it  was  only  a  fancy,  and  in  order  to  banish  it  from  his  mind  he  went  out  upon 
the  green.  But  here  he  remarked  that  he  gazed  into  the  very  heart  of  things,  the 
very  herbs  and  grass,  and  that  actual  nature  harmonized  with  what  he  had  in- 
wardly seen."  Martensen,  in  his  biography,  follows  that  by  Frankenberg,  in  which, 
the  experience  may  be  given  more  in  detail, 


282  "TRANSCENDENTALISM." 

Another  Boehme  with  a  tougher  book 

And  subtler  meanings  of  what  roses  say,  — 

Or  some  stout  Mage  like  him  of  Halberstadt, 

John,  who  made  things  Boehme  wrote  thoughts  about? 

He  with  a  "  look  you  !  "  vents  a  brace  of  rhymes, 

And  in  there  breaks  the  sudden  rose  herself,  4o 

Over  us,  under,  round  us  every  side, 

Nay,  in  and  out  the  tables  and  the  chairs 

And  musty  volumes,  Boehme's  book  and  all,  — 

Buries  us  with  a  glory,  young  once  more, 

Pouring  heaven  into  this  shut  house  of  life. 

37-40.  him  of  Halberstadt,  John :  "  It  is  not  a  thinker  like  Boehme,  who 
will  compensate  us  for  the  lost  summer  of  our  life;  but  a  magician  like  John  of 
Halberstadt,  who  can,  at  any  moment,  conjure  roses  up." 

"  The  '  magic '  symbolized,  is  that  of  genuine  poetry ;  but  the  magician,  or 
'  Mage,'  is  an  historical  person ;  and  the  special  feat  imputed  to  him  was  recorded 
of  other  magicians  in  the  Middle  Ages,  if  not  of  himself.  '  Johannes  Teutonicus,  a 
canon  of  Halberstadht  in  Germany,  after  he  had  performed  a  number  of  prestig- 
ious feats  almost  incredible,  was  transported  by  the  Devil  in  the  likeness  of  a  black 
horse,  and  was  both  seen  and  heard  upon  one  and  the  same  Christmas  day,  to  say 
mass  in  Halberstadht,  in  Mayntz,  and  in  Cologne '  (HeywoocCs  Hierarchy,  Bk.  IV., 
p.  253).  The  'prestigious  feat'  of  causing  flowers  to  appear  in  winter,  was  a  com- 
mon one."  —  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr's  Handbook  to  the  works  of  Robert  Browning,  p. 
209. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  advice  given  in  this  poem,  Browning  has  not  sufficiently 
followed  in  his  own  poetry.  On  this  point,  a  writer  in  the  British  Quarterly  Review 
(Vol.  23,  p.  162)  justly  remarks :  "  Browning's  thought  is  always  that  of  a  poet. 
Subtle,  nimble,  and  powerful  as  is  the  intellect,  and  various  as  is  the  learning,  all  is 
manifested  through  the  imagination,  and  comes  forth  shaped  and  tinted  by  it. 
Thus,  even  in  the  foregoing  passages  [cited  from  Transcendentalism  and  Bishop 
Blougram's  Apology] ,  where  the  matter  is  almost  as  purely  as  it  can  be  the  produce 
of  the  mere  understanding,  it  is  still  evident  that  the  method  of  the  thought  is 
poetic.  The  notions  take  the  form  of  images.  For  example,  the  poet  means  to 
say  that  Prose  is  a  good  and  mighty  vehicle  in  its  way,  but  that  it  is  not  Poetry ; 
and  how  does  the  conception  shape  itself  in  his  mind  ?  Why,  in  an  image.  All 
at  once  it  is  not  Prose  that  is  thought  about,  but  a  huge  six-foot  speaking-trumpet 
braced  round  with  bark,  through  which  the  Swiss  hunters  help  their  voices  from 
Alp  to  Alp  —  Poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  being  no  such  big  and  blaring  instrument, 
but  a  harp  taken  to  the  breast  of  youth  and  swept  by  ecstatic  fingers.  And  so  with 
the  images  of  Boehme  and  his  book,  and  John  of  Halberstadt  with  his  magic 
rose  — still  a  concrete  body  to  eoshrine  an  abstract  meaning." 


APPARENT  FAILURE.  283 

So  come,  the  harp  back  to  your  heart  again  ! 

You  are  a  poem,  though  your  poem's  naught. 

The  best  of  all  you  showed  before,  believe, 

Was  your  own  boy-face  o'er  the  finer  chords 

Bent,  following  the  cherub  at  the  top  5o 

That  points  to  God  with  his  paired  half-moon  wings. 


APPARENT  FAILURE. 

"  We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building."  —  Paris  Newspaper. 

I. 
No,  for  I'll  save  it !     Seven  years  since, 

I  passed  through  Paris,  stopped  a  day 
To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince ; 

Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my  way : 
Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 

I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 
Thought  of  the  Congress,  Gortschakoff, 

Cavour's  appeal  and  Buol's  replies, 
So  sauntered  till  —  what  met  my  eyes  ? 

2. 
Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue  ! 

The  dead-house  where  you  show  your  drowned : 

St.  i.  To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince :  the  Prince  Imperial,  son  of 
Napoleon  III.  and  the  Empress  Eugenie,  born  March  16, 1856.  the  Congress  : 
the  Congress  of  Paris. 

Gortschakoff  :  Prince  Alexander  Michaelowitsch  Gortschakoff;  while  repre- 
senting Russia  at  the  Court  of  Vienna,  he  kept  Austria  neutral  during  the  Crimean 
War. 

Cavour :  Count  Camillo  Benso  di  Cavour,  Italian  statesman,  b.  1810;  at  the 
Congress  of  Paris,  brought  forward  the  question  of  the  political  consolidation  of 
Italy,  which  led  to  the  invasion  of  Italy  by  the  Austrians,  who  were  defeated;  d. 
6th  June,  1861. 

Buol  :  Karl  Ferdinand  von  Buol-Schauenstein,  Austrian  diplomatist,  and  min- 
ister of  foreign  affairs  from  1852  to  1859, 


284  APPARENT  FAILURE. 

Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the  Sorgue, 
Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine  renowned. 

One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case ; 

I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered,  —  stalked, 

Keeping  a  tolerable  face 

Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks  were  chalked  : 

Let  them  !     No  Briton's  to  be  balked  ! 

3- 

First  came  the  silent  gazers ;  next, 

A  screen  of  glass,  we're  thankful  for ; 
Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves  :  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  then-  sin's  atoned. 

4- 
Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that ! 

The  reverence  struck  me ;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 
Sacred  from  touch  :  each  had  his  berth, 

His  bounds,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 
Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 

Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast,  — 
Unless  the  plain  asphalte  seemed  best. 

5- 

How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy? 
You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 

St.  2.  Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the  Sorgrue :  Fontaine  de 
Vaucluse,  a  celebrated  fountain,  in  the  department  of  Vaucluse,  in  Southern  France, 
the  source  of  the  Sorgues.  The  village  named  after  it  was  for  some  time  the  resi- 
dence of  Petrarch. 


APPARENT  FAILURE.  285 

And  have  the  Tuileries  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke  your  heart? 
You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller  !     Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You've  gained  what  no  Republic  missed? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclinch  your  fist ! 

6. 

And  this  —  why,  he  was  red  in  vain, 

Or  black,  —  poor  fellow  that  is  blue  ! 
What  fancy  was  it,  turned  your  brain  ? 

Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you  ! 
Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust ! 


It's  wiser  being  good  than  bad ; 

It's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce  : 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched ; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst. 


286  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

RABBI   BEN   EZRA. 

i. 

GROW  old  along  with  me  ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made  : 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned, 

Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God  :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid  !  " 

2. 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "  Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?  " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them  all !  " 

3- 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate  :  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

4- 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  Indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 

St.  i.  Grow  old  along  with  me !  I  understand  that  the  aged  Rabbi  is 
addressing  some  young  friend.  The  best  is  yet  to  be,  the  last  of  life  : 

"  By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shah  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  unconscious,  the  life  of  a  boy." 

—  Saul,  162,  163. 

St.  2,  3.  The  construction  is,  I  do  not  remonstrate  that  youth,  amassing  flowers, 
sighed,  Which  rose  make  ours,  which  lily  leave,  etc.,  nor  that,  admiring  stars,  it 
(youth)  yearned,  etc. 


RABBf  BEN  EZRA. 


287 


On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast ; 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks   care   the   crop-full   bird?     Frets   doubt  the  maw-crammed 
beast? 

5- 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  ! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

6. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe ! 

7- 

For  thence,  —  a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks,  — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

8. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 

St.  4.  Irks  care  :  does  care  irk  ...  does  doubt  fret  .  .  . 

St.  5.  Nearer  we  hold  of  God :  have  title  to  a  nearer  relationship.  See 
Webster,  s.v.  Hold,  v.  i.  def.  3. 

St.  7.  What  I  aspired  to  be :  "  'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him, 
but  what  man  Would  do."  —  Saul,  v.  296. 


288  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ? 

To  man,  propose  this  test  — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

9- 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  : 

I  own  the  Past  profuse 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  : 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How  good  to  live  and  learn  "? 

10. 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  Thine  ! 
I  see  the  whole  design, 
I,  who  saw  Power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too : 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 
Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do  !  "        + 

ii. 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as  we  did  best ! 

St.  8.  Thy  body  at  its  best,  How  far,  etc. :  "  In  our  flesh  grows  the 
branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit."  —  Saul,  v.  151. 

St.  9.  the  Past :  he  means  the  past  of  his  own  life. 

St.  10.  The  original  reading  of  the  3d  verse  was,  "  I,  who  saw  Power,  shall  see 
Love  perfect  too."  The  change  has  cleared  up  a  difficulty.  The  All-Great  is  now 
tc  me,  in  my  age,  the  All-Loving  too.  Maker,  remake,  complete :  there 
seems  to  be  an  anticipation  here  of  the  metaphor  of  the  Potter's  wheel,  in  stanzas 
25-32 ;  and  see  Jer.  xviii.  4. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


289 


12. 


Let  us  not  always  say 

Date  Due 


ie  whole  !  " 


an  flesh  helps  soul  !  " 

n  : 

in  the  germ. 

/: 

ne. 

ng  old. 

>n  of  youth  ;  so  youth  should 

288  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 
To  man,  propose  this  test  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  proje< 


Yet  gifts  should  prove  1 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  pe. 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their 
Brain  treasured  up  the 
Should  not  the  heart  be 


Not  once  beat  "  Praise 
I  see  the  whole  design, 
I,  who  saw  Power,  see  : 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  m£ 
Maker,  remake,  comple 


For  pleasant  is  this  flesl 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-me 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth 
Would  we  some  prize  n 
To  match  those  manifol 
Possessions  of  the  brute 

St.  8.  Thy  body  at  its 

branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul 

St.  9.  the  Past :  he  meat 

St.  10.  The  original  readir 

Love  perfect  too."    The  char 

tc  me,  in  my  age,  the  All-L 

seems  to  be  an  anticipation  h< 

25-32 ;  and  see  Jer,  xviii.  4. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  289 

12. 

Let  us  not  always  say 

"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole  !  " 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 

Let  us  cry  "  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul  !  " 


Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term  : 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute  ;  a  God  though  in  the  germ. 

14. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 
Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new  : 
Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 


Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 

Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold  : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

St.  13.  Thence  I  shall  pass,  etc.  :  It  will  be  observed  that  here  and  in  some 
of  the  following  stanzas,  the  Rabbi  speaks  in  the  person  of  youth  ;  so  youth  should 
say  to  itself. 


-290  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

16. 

For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray  : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots  —  "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and.  try  its  worth  :  here  dies  another  day." 


So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

That  acquiescence  vain  : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

18. 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day  : 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

19. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made  : 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.     Thou  waitedst  age  :  wait  death,  nor  be  afraid  ! 

20. 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 
And  Good  and  Infinite 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 


21. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small, 

Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 

Right  ?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last ! 

22. 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that :  whom  shall  my  soul  believe  ? 

23- 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 
Called  "  work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price ; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice  : 

St.  20.  knowledge  absolute:  soul  knowledge,  which  is  reached  through 
direct  assimilation  by  the  soul  of  the  hidden  principles  of  things,  as  distinguished 
from  intellectual  knowledge,  which  is  based  on  the  phenominal,  and  must  be  more 
or  less  subject  to  dispute. 

St.  21,  vv.  4,  5.  The  relatives  are  suppressed :  Was  I  whom  the  world  arraigned, 
or  were  they  whom  my  soul  disdained,  right  ? 


292 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


24. 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account : 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount : 

'  25. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped  : 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

26. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay,  — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day  ! " 

27. 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure  : 
What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

St.  26.  Potter's  wheel :  "  But  now,  O  Lord,  thou  art  our  Father :  we  are  the 
clay,  and  thou  our  Potter;  and  we  are  all  the  work  of  thy  hand."  —  Is.  Ixiv.  8 ;  and 
see  Jer.  xviii.  2-6. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  293 

28. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest  : 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee,  and  turn  thee  forth  sufficiently  impressed. 

29. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press  ? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 


Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash,  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou  with  earth's 
wheel  ? 

3i- 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ! 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I,  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound  dizzily,  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst  : 

32- 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work, 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 


294  A   GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same  1 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY  AFTER  THE  REVIVAL  OF  LEARNING  IN  EUROPE. 

LET  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes, 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  in  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row  ! 
That's  the  appropriate  country ;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser,  zo 

Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop  ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture  ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels ; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No,  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit.  20 

Thither  our  path  lies ;  wind  we  up  the  heights  ! 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 

18.  overcome:  pass  over,  overhang,  overshadow;  used  as  in  Macbeth  III. 
IV.  3,  "  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud." 


A   GRAMMARIANS  FUNERAL.  295 

Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's  : 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders  ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm,  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 


Sleep,  crop  and  herd  !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft 

Safe  from  the  weather  !  3o 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo  ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless  :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone  ! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "  New  measures,  other  feet  anon  ! 

"  My  dance  is  finished?"  40 

No,  that's  the  world's  way ;  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city  !) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity ; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage,  — 

Give  !  "  —  So,  he  gowned  him,  50 

Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page  : 

Learned,  we  found  him. 


39.  New  measures,  .  .  .  finished  ?  do  you  say?  not  at  all. 
42.  All  in  parentheses,  throughoi<t  the  poem,  is  addressed  by  the  speaker 
directly  to  his  companions. 


296  A   GRAMMARIANS  FUNERAL. 

Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain : 
"  Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain  ! " 
This  man  said  rather,  "  Actual  life  comes  next? 

Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still  there's  the  comment.  60 

Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy  ! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it, 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give  ! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts  — 

Fancy  the  fabric  7o 

Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick  ! 

(Here's  the  town-gate  reached ;  there's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus  !) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live  — 

No  end  to  learning  : 
Earn  the  means  first  —  God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning.  80 

Others  mistrust  and  say,  "  But  time  escapes  ! 

Live  now  or  never  ! " 
He  said,  "  What's  time  ?     Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes  ! 

Man  has  Forever." 

57.  Actual  life  conies  next :  do  you  say  ?     No.     I  have  more  to  do 
first. 


A   GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Back  to  his  book  then  :  deeper  drooped  his  head : 

Calculus  racked  him  : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead  : 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"  Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest ! "  — not  he  ! 

(Caution  redoubled  !  90 

Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly  !) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain  !  ioc 

Was  it  not  great  ?  did  not  he  throw  on  God 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing  —  heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure  :  no 

"  Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?  "     He  answered,  "  Yes  ! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure  !  " 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 

86.  Calculus :  the  stone. 

88.  Tussis:  a  cough. 

95.  hydroptic  :  hydropic,  dropsical. 


2gS  A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit.  120 

That,  has  the  world  here  — should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife : 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  HotVs  business  —  let  it  be  !  — 

Properly  based  Oun  —  i3o 

Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place : 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
Afl  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews  ! 
Here's  the  top-peak ;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there  : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know  — 

Bury  this  man  there?  140 

Here  —  here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form, 

129.  Hot! :  the  Greek  particle  "OR,  con/,  that,  etc. 

130.  Oun :  Greek  particle  Ovv,  then,  now  then,  etc. 

131.  the  enclitic  De  :  Greek  Ae;  in  regard  to  this,  the  following  letter  by  Brown- 
ing appeared  in  the  London  Daily  News  of  Nov.  21,  1874 :  "  To  the  Editor  of  The 
Daily  News.    Sir, —  In  a  clever  article  this  morning  you  speak  of 'the  doctrine  of  the 
enclitic  De'  —  'which,  with  all  deference  to  Mr.  Browning,  in  point  of  fact  does 
not  exist.'      No,  not  to  Mr.  Browning:  but  pray  defer  to  Herr  Buttmann,  whose 
fifth  list  of  '  enclitics '  ends  '  with  the  inseparable  De '  —  or  to  Curtius,  whose  fifth 
list  ends  also  with  ' De  (meaning  'towards'  and  as  a  demonstrative  appendage).' 
That  this  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  the  accentuated  '  De,  meaning  but,'  was  the 
'  doctrine  '  which  the  Grammarian  bequeathed  to  those  capable  of  receiving  it.  — 
I  am,  sir,  yours  obediently,  R.  B."  —  Browning  Soc.  Papers,  Part  I.,  p.  56. 


AN  EPISTLE.  299 

• 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go  !     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  : 

Loftily  lying, 

Leave  him  —  still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 
Living  and  dying. 


AN   EPISTLE 

CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDICAL  EXPERIENCE  OF  KARSHISH,  THE 
ARAB  PHYSICIAN. 

KARSHISH,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 
The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 
(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 
Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 
To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 
That  puff  of  vapor  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

-  To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 
Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast, 
Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 
Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain,  10 

Whereby  the  wily  vapor  fain  would  slip 
Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term,  — 
And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 
To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such  :  — 
The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home 
Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with  peace) 
Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone  —  rarer  still, 
One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped 

i.  Karshish  ...  To  Abib. 

17.    snake-Stone :    a  certain  kind  of  stone  supposed  to  be  efficacious  when 
placed  upon  the  bite  of  a  snake,  in  absorbing  or  charming  away  the  poison. 


3oo  AN  EPISTLE. 

« 

(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs), 
And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time.  20 

My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho  : 
Thus  I  resume.     Who,  studious  in  our  art, 
Shall  count  a  little  labor  unrepaid  ? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumors  of  a  marching  hitherward  : 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear ; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls  :  3o 

I  cried  and  threw  my  staff,  and  he  was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy ; 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague- sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.    Thou  laughest  here  ! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip,  4o 

And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say ; 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of :  there's  a  spider  here 
Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs, 
Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back ; 
Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .  .  but  who  knows  his  mind, 

21.  My  journeyings  -were  brought  to  Jericho :  i.e.,  in  his  last  letter. 

28.  Vespasian:  T.  Flavius  Sabinus  Vespasianus,  Roman  emperor,  A.D.  70- 
79 ;  sent  by  Nero  in  66  to  conduct  the  war  against  the  Jews ;  when  proclaimed 
emperor,  left  his  son  Titus  to  continue  the  war. 

24-33.  his  ardent  scientific  interest  has  caused  him  to  brave  all  dangers. 


AN  EPISTLE. 


301 


The  Syrian  runagate  I  trust  this  to? 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate  5o 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 

Best  wait :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 

There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 

Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all  — 

Or  I  might  add,  Judaea's  gum-tragacanth 

Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 

Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 

In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-disease 

Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy  : 

Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar  —  60 

But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 

Yet  stay  !  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price  — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a- writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang  ! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness,  —  or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him,  — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  'tis  worth.  70 

So,  pardon  if — (lest  presently  I  lose, 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand, 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight  —  for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth  ? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 


49.  The  Syrian  runagate  :  perhaps  I'm  writing  for  nothing  in  trusting  my 
letter  to  him. 

60.  Thou  hadst :  wouldst  have.  Zoar:  one  of  the  "  cities  of  the  plain,"  S.  E 
of  the  Dead  Sea  (Gen.  xix.  22). 

65-78.  Though  he's  deeply  impressed  with  the  subject,  he  approaches  it  with 
extreme  diffidence,  writing  to  the  "  all-sagacious  "  Abib. 


AN  EPISTLE. 

Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all ! 

'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania  :  subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point  80 

Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days ; 
When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcization,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me  and  which  'twere  well  to  know, 
The  evil  thing,  out-breaking,  all  at  once, 
Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed,  — 
But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide, 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 
Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall  90 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were 
(First  come,  first  served),  that  nothing  subsequent 
Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 
The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 
Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 
That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 
And  first  —  the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 
That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 

—  That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 

By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe  :  I00 

—  'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 
"  Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 

Not  so  this  figment !  —  not,  that  such  a  fume, 
Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 
Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 
As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all ! 

82.   exhibition :  used  in  its  medical  sense  of  administering  a  remedy. 
103.  fume:  vaporish  fancy. 
106.    As  saffron  tingeth  :  Chaucer  uses  "  saffron  "  metaphorically  as  a  verb :  — 

"  And  in  Latyn  I  speke  a  wordes  fewe, 
To  saffron  with  my  predicacioun, 
And  for  to  stire  men  to  devocioun." —  The  Pardoner's  Prologue. 


AN  EPISTLE. 


303 


For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 

The  man  —  it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 

Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 

The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable,  no 

As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 

As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 

Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 

And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 

And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep  ! 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all  ? 

This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 

Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 

To  bear  my  inquisition.     While  they  spoke,  120 

Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow,  —  told  the  case,  — 

He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 

But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 

Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed  :  and  yet  no  fool. 

And  that's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 

Look  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 

Should  find  a  treasure,  —  can  he  use  the  same 

With  straitened  habits  and  with  tastes  starved  small, 

And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things,  130 

That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand, 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth  — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one  : 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here  —  we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say, 

113.  Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug. 


304  AN  EPISTLE. 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty  —  14o 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven : 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds  — 

'Tis  one  !     Then  take  it  on  the  other  side, 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact,  —  he  will  gaze  rapt  JS0 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness 

(Far  as  I  see),  as  if  in  that  indeed 

141, 142.  "  Browning  has  drawn  the  portraiture  of  one  to  whom  the  eternal  is 
sensibly  present,  whose  spirit  has  gained  prematurely  absolute  predominance:  .  .  . 
and  the  result  is  ...  a  being  '  Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows  God's  secret, 
while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life '  (vv.  200,  201).  Lazarus  therefore,  while  he  moves 
in  the  world,  has  lost  all  sense  of  proportion  in  things  about  him,  all  measure  of 
and  faculty  of  dealing  with  that  which  sways  his  fellows.  He  has  no  power  or  will 
to  win  them  to  his  faith,  but  he  simply  stands  among  men  as  a  patient  witness  of 
the  overwhelming  reality  of  the  divine:  a  witness  whose  authority  is  confessed, 
even  against  his  inclination,  by  the  student  of  nature,  who  turns  again  and  again  to 
the  phenomenon  which  he  affects  to  disparage. 

"  In  this  crucial  example  Browning  shows  how  the  exclusive  dominance  of  the 
spirit  destroys  the  fulness  of  human  life,  its  uses  and  powers,  while  it  leaves  a  pas- 
sive life,  crowned  with  an  unearthly  beauty.  On  the  other  hand,  he  shows  in  his 
'study  of  Cleon  that  the  richest  results  of  earth  in  art  and  speculation,  and  pleasure 
and  power,  are  unable  to  remove  from  life  the  desolation  of  final  gloom.  .  .  .  The 
contrast  is  of  the  deepest  significance.  The  Jewish  peasant  endures  earth,  being  in 
possession  of  heaven :  the  Greek  poet,  in  possession  of  earth,  feels  that  heaven, 
some  future  state, 

'  Unlimited  in  capability 
For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy,' 

is  a  necessity  for  man ;  but  no, 

'  Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it;  and  alas, 
He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possible! ' 

But  we  must  not  pause  to  follow  out  the  contrast  into  details.  It  is  enough  to  see 
broadly  that  flesh  and  spirit  each  claim  recognition  in  connection  with  their  proper 
spheres,  in  order  that  the  present  life  may  bear  its  true  result."  —  Rev.  Prof.  U'est- 
cott  oft  Browning's  View  of  Life  (ff.  Soc.  Papers,  IV.,  pp.  401,  402). 


AN  EPISTLE. 


305 


He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results ; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  by-standers 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point), 

That  we,  too,  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death,  —  why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness,  l6° 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft ! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep, 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.     Demand 

The  reason  why —  "  'tis  but  a  word,"  object  — 

"  A  gesture  "  —  he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind  ?)  when,  being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite  J7Q 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  both 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know  ! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life  — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast,  distracting  orb  l8° 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 

Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet  — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life  : 

166.  object:  offer  in  opposition ;  see  v.  243. 

167.  our  lord  :  some  sage  under  whom  they  had  learned;  see  v.  254. 
174.   Thou  and  the  child  have  :  i.e.,  for  him,  Lazarus. 

177.   Greek  fire :  see  Gibbon,  chap.  52. 


3o6  AN  EPISTLE. 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across, 

And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  the  blaze  — 

"  It  should  be  "  balked  by  "  here  it  cannot  be." 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 

His  sage  that  bade  him  "  Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 

Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  within 

Admonishes  :  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread ; 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will  — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth  : 

He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 

He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be, 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do  : 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbor  the  real  ground, 

His  own  conviction  ?     Ardent  as  he  is  — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 


AN  EPISTLE.  307 

"  Be  it  as  God  please  "  re-assureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should :  22° 

"  How,  beast,"  said  I,  "  this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once  ?  " 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds —  how  say  I?  flowers  of  the  field  — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools  23° 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin  — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed  : 

As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happed  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance,  240 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure  —  and  I  must  hold  my  peace  ! 

Thou  wilt  object —     Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits  ? 
Alas  !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused,  —  our  learning's  fate,  —  of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule  25° 

And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 


3o8  AN  EPISTLE. 

(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 

To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone), 

Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people  —  that's  their  wont ! 

On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help  — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake  ?    That's  their  way  ! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies  :  26° 

But  take  one,  though  I  loath  to  give  it  thee, 

In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 

(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 

Is  stark  mad ;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says? 

Perhaps  not :  though  in  writing  to  a  leech 

'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 

This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then, 

As  —  God  forgive  me  !  who. but  God  himself, 

Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 

That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  a  while  !  270 

—  'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived, 

Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house, 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know, 

And  yet  was  .  .  .  what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith  —  but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith? 

Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark  ? 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool  280 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.     It  is  strange  ! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case, 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 

281.   Aleppo:  a  city  of  Syria;  the  blue-flowering  borage  was  supposed  to  pos- 
sess valuable  medicinal  virtues  and  exhilarating  qualities. 


AN  EPISTLE. 


309 


Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth  ! 

Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 

Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 

And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 

Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 

Had  wrought  upon  me  first.     I  met  him  thus  :  290 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 

Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.     Out  there  came 

A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 

Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing  : 

Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.     So  we  met 

In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 

The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 

Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 

To  this  ambiguous  Syrian  :  he  may  lose, 

Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good.  3^ 

Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 

For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine  ; 

Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell ! 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib ;  dost  thou  think  ? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All- Loving  too  — 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  ! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine  : 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love,  3io 

And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee  ! " 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so  :  it  is  strange. 

301.  Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends:  he  will  avail  himself  of  it 
to  write  a  better  letter  than  this  one. 


3io 


EPITAPH.  — THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER. 

A   MARTYR'S   EPITAPH. 

(FROM  '  EASTER  DAY.') 

I  WAS  born  sickly,  poor,  and  mean, 

A  slave  :  no  misery  could  screen 

The  holders  of  the  pearl  of  price 

From  Caesar's  envy  ;  therefore  twice 

I  fought  with  beasts,  and  three  times  saw 

My  children  suffer  by  his  law ; 

At  last  my  own  release  was  earned : 

I  was  some  time  in  being  burned, 

But  at  the  close  a  Hand  came  thrpugh 

The  fire  above  my  head,  and  drew 

My  soul  to  Christ,  whom  now  I  see. 

Sergius,  a  brother,  writes  for  me 

This  testimony  on  the  wall  — 

For  me,  I  have  forgot  it  all. 


SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER, 
i. 

GR-R-R  —  there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence  ! 

Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do  ! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you  ! 
What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims  — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames  ! 


THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER. 

2. 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together : 

Salve  tibi  !  I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year  : 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop :  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt : 
Whafs  the  Latin  name  for  "parsley  "? 

What's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout  ? 

3- 
Whew !     We'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf ! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself, 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  'tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps  — 
Marked  with  L.  for  our  initial  ! 

(He-he  !     There  his  lily  snaps  !) 

4- 

Saint,  forsooth  !     While  brown  Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horse-hairs, 

—  Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow, 
Bright  as  'twere  a  Barbary  corsair's  ? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show  !) 

5- 
When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 


3I2  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER. 

I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp  — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 

6. 

Oh,  those  melons  ?     If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast !  so  nice  ! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers  ?     None  double  ? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange  !  —  And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly  ! 

7- 
There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails  : 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee  ? 

8. 
Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type  ! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe  : 

St.  5.  the  Arian:  a  follower  of  Arius  (died  336  A.D.),  who  denied  that  the 
Son  was  co-essential  and  co-eternal  with  the  Father. 

St.  7.  text  in  Galatians:  chap.  v.  19-21, where  are  enumerated  "the  works  of 
the  flesh."  There  are  seventeen  named ;  he  uses  twenty-nine  indefinitely ;  it's 
common  in  French  to  use  Ircnte-six  for  any  pretty  big  number.  If  I  trip  him  : 
What  if  I ;  and  so  in  next  stanza,  a  Manichee :  a  follower  of  Mani,  who  aimed 
to  unite  Parseeism,  or  Parsism,  with  Christianity. 


HOLY-CROSS   DAY. 

If  I  double  down  its  pages 
At  the  woml  sixteenth  print, 

When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 
Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't  ? 


Or,  there's  Satan  !  —  one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of !     Hy,  Zy,  Bine  .  .  . 
'St,  there's  Vespers  !     Plena  gratid 

Ave,  Virgo!    Gr-r-r — you  swine  ! 


313 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

ON  WHICH  THE  JEWS  WERE  FORCED  TO  ATTEND  AN  ANNUAL  CHRISTIAN 
SERMON  IN  ROME. 

["  Now  was  come  about  Holy-Cross  Day,  and  now  must  my  lord  preach  his 
first  sermon  to  the  Jews :  as  it  was  of  old  cared  for  in  the  merciful  bowels  of  the 
Church,  that,  so  to  speak,  a  crumb,  at  least,  from  her  conspicuous  table  here  in 
Rome, should  be,  though  but  once  yearly,  cast  to  the  famishing  dogs,  under-trampled 
and  bespitten-upon  beneath  the  feet  of  the  guests.  And  a  moving  sight  in  truth, 
this,  of  so  many  of  the  besotted  blind  restif  and  ready-to-perish  Hebrews !  now 
maternally  brought  —  nay  (for  He  saith,  'Compel  them  to  come  in'),  haled,  as  it 
were,  by  the  head  and  hair,  and  against  their  obstinate  hearts,  to  partake  of  the 
heavenly  grace.  What  awakening,  what  striving  with  tears,  what  working  of  a 
yeasty  conscience !  Nor  was  my  lord  wanting  to  himself  on  so  apt  an  occasion  ; 
witness  the  abundance  of  conversions  which  did  incontinently  reward  him  :  though 
not  to  my  lord  be  altogether  the  glory."  —  Diary  by  the  Bishop's  Secretary,  1600.] 

What  the  Jews  really  said,  on  thus  being  driven  to  church,  was  rather  to  this 
effect :  — 

St.  9.   Hy,  Zy,  Hine  :  represent  the  sound  of  the  vesper  bell. 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

I. 

FEE,  faw,  fum  !  bubble  and  squeak  ! 
Blessedest  Thursday's  the  fat  of  the  week. 
Rumble  and  tumble,  sleek  and  rough, 
Stinking  and  savory,  smug  and  gruff, 
Take  the  church-road,  for  the  bell's  due  chime 
Gives  us  the  summons  —  'tis  sermon-time  1 

2. 

Boh,  here's  Barnabas  !     Job,  that's  you? 
Up  stumps  Solomon  —  bustling  too  ? 
Shame,  man  !  greedy  beyond  your  years 
To  handsel  the  bishop's  shaving-shears? 
Fair  play's  a  jewel !     Leave  friends  in  the  lurch  ? 
Stand  on  a  line  ere  you  start  for  the  church  ! 

3- 

Higgledy  piggledy,  packed  we  lie, 
Rats  in  a  hamper,  swine  in  a  sty, 
Wasps  in  a  bottle,  frogs  in  a  sieve, 
Worms  in  a  carcass,  fleas  in  a  sleeve. 
Hist !  square  shoulders,  settle  your  thumbs 
And  buzz  for  the  bishop  —  here  he  comes. 

"By  a  bull  of  Gregory  XIII.  in  the  year  1584,  all  Jews  above  the  age  of  twelve 
years  were  compelled  to  listen  every  week  to  a  sermon  from  a  Christian  priest ; 
usually  an  exposition  of  some  passages  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  especially  those 
relating  to  the  Messiah,  from  the  Christian  point  of  view.  This  burden  is  not  yet 
wholly  removed  from  them ;  and  to  this  day,  several  times  in  the  course  of  a  year, 
a  Jewish  congregation  is  gathered  together  in  the  church  of  S.  Angelo  in  Pescheria, 
and  constrained  to  listen  to  a  homily  from  a  Dominican  friar,  to  whom,  unless  his 
zeal  have  eaten  up  his  good  feelings  and  his  good  taste,  the  ceremony  must  be  as 
painful  as  to  his  hearers.  In  the  same  spirit  of  vulgar  persecution,  there  is  upon 
the  gable  of  a  church,  opposite  one  of  the  gates  of  the  Ghetto,  a  fresco  painting  of 
the  Crucifixion,  and,  underneath,  an  inscription  in  Hebrew  and  Latin,  from  the  2d 
and  3d  verses  of  the  65th  chapter  of  Isaiah  — '  I  have  spread  out  my  hands  all  the 
day  unto  a  rebellious  people,  which  walketh  in  a  way  that  was  not  good,  after  their 
own  thoughts;  a  people  that  provoketh  me  to  anger  continually  to  my  face.' "  — 
George  S,  Hillard's  Six  Months  in  Italy.  (1853.) 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY, 

4-   ' 

Bow,  wow,  wow  —  a  bone  for  the  dog  ! 
I  liken  his  Grace  to  an  acorned  hog. 
What,  a  boy  at  his  side,  with  the  bloom  of  a  lass, 
To  help  and  handle  my  lord's  hour-glass  ! 
Didst  ever  behold  so  lithe  a  chine  ? 
His  cheek  hath  laps  like  a  fresh-singed  swine. 

5- 

Aaron's  asleep  —  shove  hip  to  haunch, 
Or  somebody  deal  him  a  dig  in  the  paunch  ! 
Look  at  the  purse  with  the  tassel  and  knob, 
And  the  gown  with  the  angel  and  thingumbob  ! 
What's  he  at,  quotha?  reading  his  text ! 
Now  you've  his  curtsey  —  and  what  comes  next  ? 

6. 

See  to  our  converts  —  you  doomed  black  dozen  — 
No  stealing  away  —  nor  cog  nor  cozen  ! 
You  five,  that  were  thieves,  deserve  it  fairly ; 
You  seven,  that  were  beggars,  will  live  less  sparely ; 
You  took  your  turn  and  dipped  in  the  hat, 
Got  fortune  —  and  fortune  gets  you ;  mind  that ! 

7- 

Give  your  first  groan  —  compunction's  at  work ; 
And  soft !  from  a  Jew  you  mount  to  a  Turk. 
Lo,  Micah,  —  the  selfsame  beard  on  chin 
He  was  four  times  already  converted  in  ! 
Here's  a  knife,  clip  quick  —  it's  a  sign  of  grace  — 
Or  he  ruins  us  all  with  his  hanging-face. 

8. 

Whom  now  is  the  bishop  a-leering  at  ? 
I  know  a  point  where  his  text  falls  pat. 
I'll  tell  him  to-morrow,  a  word  just  now 


315 


316  HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

Went  to  my  heart  and  made  me  vow 

To  meddle  no  more  with  the  worst  of  trades : 

Let  somebody  else  play  his  serenades  ! 

9- 

Groan  all  together  now,  whee  —  hee  —  hee  ! 
It's  a-work,  it's  a-work,  ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
It  began,  when  a  herd  of  us,  picked  and  placed, 
Were  spurred  through  the  Corso,  stripped  to  the  waist ; 
Jew  brutes,  with  sweat  and  blood  well  spent 
To  usher  in  worthily  Christian  Lent. 

10. 

It  grew,  when  the  hangman  entered  our  bounds, 
Yelled,  pricked  us  out  to  his  church  like  hounds : 
It  got  to  a  pitch,  when  the  hand  indeed 
Which  gutted  my  purse,  would  throttle  my  creed  : 
And  it  overflows,  when,  to  even  the  odd, 
Men  I  helped  to  their  sins,  help  me  to  their  God. 

ii. 

But  now,  while  the  scapegoats  leave  our  flock, 
And  the  rest  sit  silent  and  count  the  clock, 
Since  forced  to  muse  the  appointed  time 
On  these  precious  facts  and  truths  sublime,  — 
Let  us  fitly  employ  it,  under  our  breath, 
In  saying  Ben  Ezra's  Song  of  Death. 

12. 

For  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  night  he  died, 
Called  sons  and  sons'  sons  to  his  side, 
And  spoke,  "  This  world  has  been  harsh  and  strange ; 
Something  is  wrong  :  there  needeth  a  change. 
But  what,  or  where  ?  at  the  last  or  first  ? 
In  one  point  only  we  sinned,  at  worst. 

St.  12.   Rabbi  Ben  Ezra:  see  biographical  sketch  subjoined  to  the  Argument 
pf  the  Monologue  entitled  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  p.  133. 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 


"  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob  yet, 
And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel  set. 
When  Judah  beholds  Jerusalem, 
The  stranger-seed  shall  be  joined  to  them  : 
To  Jacob's  house  shall  the  Gentiles  cleave, 
So  the  Prophet  saith  and  his  sons  believe. 

14. 

"  Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 
Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their  place  : 
In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the  same, 
Bondsmen  and  handmaids.     Who  shall  blame, 
When  the  slaves  enslave,  the  oppressed  ones  o'er 
The  oppressor  triumph  for  evermore  ! 


"  God  spoke,  and  gave  us  the  word  to  keep  : 
Bade  never  fold  the  hands  nor  sleep 
'Mid  a  faithless  world,  —  at  watch  and  ward, 
Till  Christ  at  the  end  relieve  our  guard. 
By  his  servant  Moses  the  watch  was  set  : 
Though  near  upon  cock-crow,  we  keep  it  yet. 

16. 

"  Thou  !  if  thou  wast  he,  who  at  mid-watch  came, 
By  the  starlight,  naming  a  dubious  name  ! 
And  if,  too  heavy  with  sleep  —  too  rash 
With  fear  —  O  thou,  if  that  martyr-gash 
Fell  on  thee  coming  to  take  thine  own, 
And  we  gave  the  Cross,  when  we  owed  the  Throne  — 


"  Thou  art  the  Judge.     We  are  bruised  thus. 
But,  the  Judgment  over,  join  sides  with  us  ! 
Thine  too  is  the  cause  !  and  not  more  thine 


317 


318  HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

Than  ours,  is  the  work  of  these  dogs  and  swine, 
Whose  life  laughs  through  and  spits  at  their  creed, 
Who  maintain  thee  in  word,  and  defy  thee  in  deed  ! 

18. 

"We  withstood  Christ  then?     Be  mindful  how 
At  least  we  withstand  Barabbas  now  ! 
Was  our  outrage  sore  ?     But  the  worst  we  spared, 
To  have  called  these  —  Christians,  had  we  dared  ! 
Let  defiance  to  them  pay  mistrust  of  thee, 
And  Rome  make  amends  br  Calvary  ! 

19. 

"  By  the  torture,  prolonged  from  age  to  age, 
By  the  infamy,  Israel's  heritage, 
By  the  Ghetto's  plague,  by  the  garb's  disgrace, 
By  the  badge  of  shame,  by  the  felon's  place, 
By  the  branding-tool,  the  bloody  whip, 
And  the  summons  to  Christian  fellowship,  — 

20. 

"  We  boast  our  proof  that  at  least  the  Jew 
Would  wrest  Christ's  name  from  the  Devil's  crew. 
Thy  face  took  never  so  deep  a  shade 
But  we  fought  them  in  it,  God  our  aid  ! 
A  trophy  to  bear,  as  we  march,  thy  band 
South,  East,  and  on  to  the  Pleasant  Land  ! " 

[  The  late  Pope  abolished  this  bad  business  of  the  sermon.  —  R.  B.] 

St.  19.  Ghetto:  the  Jews'  quarter  in  Rome,  Venice,  and  other  cities.  The 
name  is  supposed  to  be  derived  from  the  Hebrew  ghet,  meaning  division,  separa- 
tion, divorce. 

The  late  Pope  :  Gregory  XVI. 


SAUL, 


SAUL. 


319 


i. 

SAID  Abner,  "  At  last  thou  art  come  !  Ere  I  tell,  ere  thou  speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well !  "     Then  I  wished  it,  and  did  kiss 

his  cheek. 

And  he,  "  Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for  thy  countenance  sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we ;  nor  until  from  his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King  liveth  yet, 
Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water  be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer  nor  of  praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  spirit  have  ended  their  strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back  upon  life.    I0 

2. 

"  Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved  !     God's  child  with  his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  and  blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild  heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert !  " 

3- 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my  feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.     The  tent  was  unlooped  ; 
I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I  stooped ; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  withered  and  gone, 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my  way  on          20 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.     Then  once  more  I  prayed, 
And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and  was  not  afraid 
But  spoke,  "  Here  is  David,  thy  servant ! "     And  no  voice  replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness ;  but  soon  I  descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness — the  vast,  the  upright 
Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion  :  and  slow  into  sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the  tent-roof,  showed  Saul. 


320 


SAUL. 


4- 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched  out  wide 
On   the   great   cross-support   in   the   centre,    that   goes  to   each 

side ;  3o 

He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught  in  his  pangs 
And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent  all  heavily  hangs, 
Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 
With  the  spring-time,  —  so  agonized  Saul,  drear  and  stark,  blind 

and  dumb. 

5- 

Then  I  tuned  my  harp,  —  took  off  the  lilies  we  twine  round  its 

chords 
Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide  —  those  sunbeams 

like  swords  !  * 

And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one  after  one, 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 
They  are  white,  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they  have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within  the  stream's  bed  ;    40 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows  star 
Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us,  —  so  blue  and  so  far ! 

6. 

—  Then  the  tune,  for  which  quails  on  the  cornland  will  each  leave 

his  mate 

To  fly  after  the  player ;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another  :  and  then,  what  has  weight 
To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand  house  — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and  half  mouse  ! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and  our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family  here. 


Then  I  played  the  help-tune   of  our   reapers,  their  wine-song, 
when  hand  5o 


SAUL. 


321 


Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and  great  hearts 

expand 
And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life.  —  And  then,  the 

last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey  —  "  Bear,  bear  him 

along 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets  !     Are  balm  seeds 

not  here 

To  console  us?    The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on  the  bier. 
Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother  !  "          And  then,  the 

glad  chant 
Of  the  marriage,  —  first  go  the  young  maidens,  next,  she  whom 

we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling.  —    And  then,  the  great 

march 

Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress  an  arch 
Naught  can  break  ;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends  ? —  Then,  the 

chorus  intoned  60 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned. 
But  I  stopped  here  :  for  here  in  the  darkness  Saul  groaned. 

8. 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened  apart ; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered  :  and  sparkles  'gan 

dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban  at  once  with  a  start 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head  :  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there  erect. 
And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  unchecked, 
As  I  sang, — 

9- 

"  Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor  !     No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced.  70 

Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living  !  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 


322 


SAUL. 


The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver 

shock 

Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of 

wine, 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy  !  so 

Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword  thou 

didst  guard 

When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious  reward  ? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear  her  faint  tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  '  Let  one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a  lifetime,  and  all  was  for 

best ! ' 
Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not  much, 

but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  working  whence 

grew 

Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the  spirit  strained  true  : 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood  —  that  boyhood  of  wonder  and 

hope,  90 

Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's  scope,  — 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch  ;  a  people  is  thine  ; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head  combine  ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage  (like  the 

throe 

That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crowning  them,  — 

all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature  —  King  Saul !  " 


SAUL. 


323 


10. 

And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit,  —  heart,  hand,  harp,  and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for  —  as  when,  dare  I  say,    I00 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through  its  array, 
And   upsoareth   the   cherubim-chariot  —  "  Saul !  "    cried    I,   and 

stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.     Then  Saul,  who  hung 

propped 

By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to  the 

aim, 

And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held  (he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad  bust 

of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate,  —  leaves  grasp  of  the 

sheet  ? 

Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to  his  feet, 
And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your  mountain  of 

old,  no 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untold  — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow  and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest  —  all  hail,  there  they 

are  ! 

—  Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on  his 

crest 
For  their  food   in   the   ardors   of  summer.     One   long   shudder 

thrilled 

All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and  aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained  ?     All  to  traverse  'twixt  hope  and 

despair. 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come  :  so  he  waited.      Awhile  his  right 

hand  120 


324 


SAUL. 


Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes,  left  too  vacant,  forthwith  to  re- 
mand 

To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter :  'twas  Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt  any  more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from  the  shore, 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean  —  a  sun's  slow  decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and  intwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely  :  so,  arm  folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

n. 

What  spell  or  what  charm 
(For,  a  while  there  was  trouble  within  me),  what  next  should  I 

urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him  ?  —  Song  rilled  to  the 

verge  iy) 

His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it  yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty :  beyond,  on  what 

fields, 

Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the  eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup  they  put 

by? 

He  saith,  "  It  is  good;  "  still  he  drinks  not :  he  lets  me  praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

12. 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round  me  the 

sheep 

Fed  in  silence  —  above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep ; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that  might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the  hill  and  the 

sky.  i40 

And  I  laughed  —  "  Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be  passed  with 

my  flocks, 


SAUL. 


325 


Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and  the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly  shall  know  ! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage  that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for."     And   now 

these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again ;  I  grew  surer ;  so,  once  more  the 

string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus  — 

•3- 

"  Yea,  my  King," 

I  began  —  "  thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts  that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and  by  brute  :  150 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,  —  how  its  stem  trem- 
bled first 

Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler ;  then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round ;   and  thou  mindest  when  these  too,  in 

turn 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect :  yet  more  was 

to  learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.     Our  dates  shall 

we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow?   or  care  for  the 

plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them  ?     Not  so  ! 

stem  and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm-wine 

shall  stanch 

Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee  such  wine.  160 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for  !  the  spirit  be  thine  ! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  inconscious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running  !     Each  deed  thou 

hast  done 


326  SAUL. 

Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world ;  until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him,  though  tem- 
pests efface, 
Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  everywhere 

trace 

The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime,  —  so,  each  ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the   countless,  with  ardor,  till  they  too  give 

forth  170 

A  like  cheer  to  their  sons :  who  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and  the 

North 

With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.     Carouse  in  the  past ! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit ;  thou  diest  at  last. 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her  height, 
So  with  man  —  so  .his  power  and  his  beauty  forever  take  flight. 
No  !     Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine  !     Look  forth  o'er  the 

years  ! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual ;   begin  with   the 

seer's  ! 
Is  Saul  dead  ?     In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb  —  bid 

arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built  to  the 

skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great   First  King  slumbers :  whose  fame 

would  ye  know?  180 

Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record  shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe,  —  Such  was  Saul,  so  he  did ; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid,  — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised  there  !     Which  fault  to 

amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they  shall 

spend 

(See,  in  tablets  'tis  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and  record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story,  —  the  statesman's  great 

word 


SAUL. 


327 


Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.     The  river's  a-wave 
With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when  prophet-winds 

rave  : 

So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part      190 
In  thy  being  !     Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God  that  thou 

art!" 

14. 
And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  O  Thou  who  didst  grant  me, 

that  day, 

And,  before  it,  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy  help  to  essay, 
Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure.,  —  my  shield  and  my  sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was  my  word,  — • 
Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human  endeavor 
And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed  hopeless  as 

ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me  —  till,  mighty  to  save, 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance  —  God's  throne 

from  man's  grave  ! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending  —  my  voice  to  my  heart    200 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels  last  night  I  took 

part, 

As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my  sheep  ! 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep, 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and  Kidron  re- 
trieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 

15- 

I  say  then,  —  my  song 

While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and,  ever  more  strong, 
Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him  —  he  slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.     The  right  hand  replumed 
His    black    locks    to    their    wonted    composure,    Adjusted    the 
swathes  aio 


328 


SAUL. 


Of  his   turban,  and   see  —  the  huge  sweat  that  his  countenance 

bathes, 

He  wipes  off  with  the  robe ;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins  as  of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp  set  before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory,  —  ere  error  had  bent 
The   broad   brow  from  the  daily  communion ;   and  still,  though 

much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God  did 

choose, 

To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  still,  stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned  there  awhile, 
And   sat   out  my  singing,  —  one   arm   round   the   tent-prop,  to 

raise  220 

His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack  —  till  I  touched  on  the 

praise 

I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient  there ; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.     Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak-roots 

which  please 

To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.     I  looked  up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace  :  he  spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow  :  through  my 

hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my  head, 

with  kind  power —  230 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a  flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scrutinized  mine  — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him  !  but  where  was  the  sign  ? 
I  yearned  —  "  Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and  this ; 
I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence, 
As  this  moment,  —  had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's  heart  to  dis- 
pense ! " 


SAUL. 


16. 


329 


Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp  more  —  no  song  more 
outbroke  — 


"  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation  :  I  saw  and  I  spoke  ; 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my  brain  240 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork  —  returned  him  again 
His  creation's  approval  or  censure  :  I  spoke  as  I  saw. 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work  —  all's  love,  yet  all's  law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me.     Each  faculty  tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop  was  asked. 
Have  I  knowledge  ?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid  bare. 
Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to   the   Infinite 

Care! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success  ? 
I  but  open  my  eyes,  —  and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen  God      250 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the  clod. 
And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  all-complete, 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance  (I  laugh  as  I  think), 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst  260 

E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift.  —     Behold,  I  could  love  if  I  durst  ! 
But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love  :  I  abstain  for  love's  sake. 
—  What,  my  soul  ?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther  ?  when  doors  great 

and  small, 

Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hundredth  appal  ? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest  of  all  ? 


330 


SAUL. 


Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 

That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it?     Here  the  parts 

shift? 

Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  creator,  —  the  end,  what  began  ? 
Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man,  270 

And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet  alone  can  ? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much  less 

power, 

To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ?  to  make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the  whole  ? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears  attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one  more,  the 

best? 

Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the  height 
This  perfection, — succeed,  with  life's  dayspring,  death's  minute 

of  night  ? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul,  the  mistake,  28o 

Saul,  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now,  —  and  bid  him  awake 
From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find  himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life,  —  a  new  harmony  yet 
To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended  —  who  knows  ?  —  or  endure  ! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to  make  sure ; 
By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 
And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles  in  this. 

18. 

"  I  believe  it !     'Tis  thou,  God,  that  givest,  'tis  I  who  receive  : 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 

All's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt  to  my 

prayer,  290 

As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the  air. 
From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy  dread  Sa- 

baoth : 
/will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me  !     Why  am  I  not  loth 


SAUL. 


33* 


To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too?     Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?     What  stops  my  despair? 
This ;  —  'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but  what  man 

Would  do  ! 
See   the  King  —  I  would  help  him,  but  cannot,  the  wishes  fall 

through. 

Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would  —  knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.    Oh,  speak  through  me  now  !  300 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love  ?     So  wouldst  thou  —  so  wilt 

thou  ! 

So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest,  uttermost  crown — 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in  !     It  is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with  death  ! 
As  thy  love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  beloved  ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest  shall  stand  the 

most  weak. 

Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for  !  my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead  !     I  seek  and  I  find  it.     O  Saul,  it  shall  be       310 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee ;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever :  a  Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee  !     See  the  Christ 

stand  ! " 

19. 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the  night. 

There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and  to  right, 

Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  alive,  the  aware  : 

I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as  strugglingly  there, 

As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news  — 

Life  or  death.     The  whole  earth  was  awakened,  hell  loosed  with 

her  crews ; 

And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled  and  shot  320 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowledge  :  but  I  fainted  not, 


332 


SAUL. 


For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and  supported,  suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy  behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from  earth  — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender  birth ; 
In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray  of  the  hills ; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath  ;  in  the  sudden  wind-thrills  ; 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  oft,  each  with  eye  sidling  still 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread ;  in  the  birds  stiff  and 

chill  330 

That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid  with  awe  : 
E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent  —  he  felt  the  new  law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by  the  flowers ; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and  moved  the  vine- 

bowers  : 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persistent  and  low, 
With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices  —  "  E'en  so,  it  is  so  !  " 

320  et  seq. :  see  note  to  St.  37, 38,  of  By  the  Fireside. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  333 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 

[SUPPOSED  of  Pamphylax  the  Antiochene  : 

It  is  a  parchment,  of  my  rolls  the  fifth, 

Hath  three  skins  glued  together,  is  all  Greek 

And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mu  : 

Lies  second  in  the  surnamed  Chosen  Chest,  5 

Stained  and  conserved  with  juice  of  terebinth, 

Covered  with  cloth  of  hair,  and  lettered  Xi, 

From  Xanthus,  my  wife's  uncle,  now  at  peace  : 

Mu  and  Epsilon  stand  for  my  own  name. 

I  may  not  write  it,  but  I  make  a  cross  10 

To  show  I  wait  His  coming,  with  the  rest, 

And  leave  off  here  :  beginneth  Pamphylax.] 

I  said,  "  If  one  should  wet  his  lips  with  wine, 

And  slip  the  broadest  plantain-leaf  we  find, 

Or  else  the  lappet  of  a  linen  robe,  15 

Into  the  water-vessel,  lay  it  right, 

And  cool  his  forehead  just  above  the  eyes, 

The  while  a  brother,  kneeling  either  side, 

Should  chafe  each  hand  and  try  to  make  it  warm,  — 

He  is  not  so  far  gone  but  he  might  speak."  20 

1-12.  The  bracketed  prefatory  lines,  explanatory  of  the  parchment  on  which  are 
recorded  the  last  hours  and  last  talk  of  St.  John  with  his  devoted  attendants,  pur- 
port to  have  been  written  by  one  who  was  at  the  time  the  owner  of  the  parchment. 
It  appears  to  have  come  into  his  possession  through  his  wife,  a  niece  of  the 
Xanthus  who,  with  Pamphylax  of  Antioch,  the  supposed  author  of  the  narrative 
(he  having  told  it  on  the  eve  of  his  martyrdom  to  a  certain  Phcebas,  v.  653),  and 
two  others,  is  represented  therein  as  waiting  on  the  dying  apostle,  and  who  after- 
wards "  escaped  to  Rome,  was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the  chronicle."  (vv. 

56.  57-) 

4.  And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mu:  the  reference  is  to  some 
numbering  on  the  parchment. 

6.   terebinth  :  the  turpentine  tree. 


334  A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

This  did  not  happen  in  the  outer  cave, 

Nor  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  rock, 

Where,  sixty  days  since  the  decree  was  out, 

We  had  him,  bedded  on  a  camel-skin, 

And  waited  for  his  dying  all  the  while ;  25 

But  in  the  midmost  grotto  :  since  noon's  light 

Reached  there  a  little,  and  we  would  not  lose 

The  last  of  what  might  happen  on  his  face. 

I  at  the  head,  and  Xanthus  at  the  feet, 

With  Valens  and  the  Boy,  had  lifted  him,  30 

And  brought  him  from  the  chamber  in  the  depths, 

And  laid  him  in  the  light  where  we  might  see  : 

For  certain  smiles  began  about  his  mouth, 

And  his  lids  moved,  presageful  of  the  end. 

Beyond,  and  half  way  up  the  mouth  o'  the  cave,  35 

The  Bactrian  convert,  having  his  desire, 

Kept  watch,  and  made  pretence  to  graze  a  goat 

That  gave  us  milk,  on  rags  of  various  herb, 

Plantain  and  quitch,  the  rocks'  shade  keeps  alive  : 

So  that  if  any  thief  or  soldier  passed  40 

(Because  the  persecution  was  aware), 

Yielding  the  goat  up  promptly  with  his  life, 

Such  man  might  pass  on,  joyful  at  a  prize, 

Nor  care  to  pry  into  the  cool  o'  the  cave. 

Outside  was  all  noon  and  the  burning  blue.  45 

"  Here  is  wine,"  answered  Xanthus,  —  dropped  a  drop ; 
I  stooped  and  placed  the  lap  of  cloth  aright, 

23.  the  decree  :  of  persecution  of  the  Christians,  perhaps  that  under  Domitian. 
The  poet  probably  did  not  think  of  any  particular  persecution. 

36.  the  Bactrian  convert :  in  vv.  649,  650,  he  is  spoken  of  as  "  but  a  wild 
childish  man,  and  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but  only  loved."  Bactria  was  a 
kingdom  in  Central  Asia ;  the  modern  name  is  Balkh.  having1  his  desire:  as 
a  new  convert,  the  simple  man  was  eager  to  serve,  even  unto  death. 

41.  aware  :  on  the  lookout ;  exercising  a  strict  espionage. 


A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  335 

Then  chafed  his  right  hand,  and  the  Boy  his  left : 

But  Valens  had  bethought  him,  and  produced 

And  broke  a  ball  of  nard,  and  made  perfume.  50 

Only,  he  did  —  not  so  much  wake,  as  —  turn 

And  smile  a  little,  as  a  sleeper  does 

If  any  dear  one  call  him,  touch  his  face  — 

And  smiles  and  loves,  but  will  not  be  disturbed. 

Then  Xanthus  said  a  prayer,  but  still  he  slept :  55 

It  is  the  Xanthus  that  escaped  to  Rome, 

Was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the  chronicle. 

Then  the  Boy  sprang  up  from  his  knees,  and  ran, 

Stung  by  the  splendor  of  a  sudden  thought, 

And  fetched  the  seventh  plate  of  graven  lead  60 

Out  of  the  secret  chamber,  found  a  place, 

Pressing  with  ringer  on  the  deeper  dints, 

And  spoke,  as  'twere  his  mouth  proclaiming  first, 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 

Whereat  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  once,  65 

And  sat  up  of  himself,  and  looked  at  us ; 

And  thenceforth  nobody  pronounced  a  word  : 

Only,  outside,  the  Bactrian  cried  his  cry 

Like  the  lone  desert-bird  that  wears  the  ruff, 

As  signal  we  were  safe,  from  time  to  time.  70 

First  he  said,  "  If  a  man  declared  to  me, 
This  my  son  Valens,  this  my  other  son, 
Were  James  and  Peter,  —  nay,  declared  as  well 
This  lad  was  very  John,  —  I  could  believe  ! 

60.  the  seventh  plate  of  graven  lead :  one  of  the  plates  on  which  John's 
Gospel  was  graven.  It  contained,  it  appears,  the  nth  chapter,  in  which  Jesus 
says  to  Martha,  2$th  verse,  "  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life."  The  Boy 
uttered  the  words  with  such  expression  as  'twere  his  mouth  first  proclaiming  them. 

69.  the  lone  desert-bird :  the  ruff  may  possibly  be  referred  to.  See  Web- 
ster, s.  v. 


336  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

—  Could,  for  a  moment,  doubtlessly  believe  :  75 

So  is  myself  withdrawn  into  my  depths, 

The  soul  retreated  from  the  perished  brain 

Whence  it  was  wont  to  feel  and  use  the  world 

Through  these  dull  members,  done  with  long  ago. 

Yet  I  myself  remain  ;  I  feel  myself :  80 

And  there  is  nothing  lost.     Let  be,  awhile  !  " 

[This  is  the  doctrine  he  was  wont  to  teach, 

How  divers  persons  witness  in  each  man, 

Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul :  first,  to  wit, 

A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily  parts,  85 

Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is  what  Does, 

And  has  the  use  of  earth,  and  ends  the  man 

Downward ;  but,  tending  upward  for  advice, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in  the  brain,  90 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use, 

And  feeleth,  thinketh,  willeth,  —  is  what  Knows  : 

Which,  duly  tending  upward  in  its  turn, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the  first,  95 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 

And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what  Is  — 

And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes  it  play, 

As  that  played  off  the  first :  and,  tending  up, 

Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends  the  man  100 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  intercourse, 

Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to  Him. 

What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is ;  three  souls,  one  man. 

I  give  the  glossa  of  Theotypas.] 

76.  withdrawn  into  my  depths  :  into  the  depths  of  his  absolute  being,  of 
the  "  what  Is ;  "  see  the  doctrine  of  the  trinal  unity  of  man  which  follows. 

82-104.  The  supposed  narrator,  Pamphylax,  gives  in  these  bracketed  verses, 
on  the  authority  of  an  imagined  Theotypas.  a  doctrine  John  was  wont  to  teach,  of 
the  trinal  unity  of  man  —  the  third  "  person  "  of  which  unity,  "what  Is,"  being 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


337 


And  then,  "  A  stick,  once  fire  from  end  to  end ;  105 

Now,  ashes  save  the  tip  that  holds  a  spark  ! 

Yet,  blow  the  spark,  it  runs  back,  spreads  itself 

A  little  where  the  fire  was  :  thus  I  urge 

The  soul  that  served  me,  till  it  task  once  more 

What  ashes  of  my  brain  have  kept  their  shape,  no 

And  these  make  effort  on  the  last  o'  the  flesh, 

Trying  to  taste  again  the  truth  of  things  "  — 

(He  smiled)  — "  their  very  superficial  truth  ; 

As  that  ye  are  my  sons,  that  it  is  long 

Since  James  and  Peter  had  release  by  death,  115 

And  I  am  only  he,  your  brother  John, 

Who  saw  and  heard,  and  could  remember  all. 


man's  essential,  absolute  nature.  The  dying  John  is  represented  as  having  won 
his  way  to  the  Kingdom  of  the  "  what  Is,"  the  Kingdom  of  eternal  truth  within  him- 
self. In  Luke  xvii.  20,  21,  we  read  :  "  And  when  he  was  demanded  of  the  Pharisees, 
when  the  Kingdom  of  God  should  come,  he  answered  them  and  said,  The  Kingdom 
of  God  cometh  not  with  observation  :  neither  shall  they  say,  Lo  here !  or,  Lo  there ! 
for,  behold,  the  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you."  In  harmony  with  which,  Para- 
celdus  is  made  to  say,  in  Browning's  poem,  "  Truth  is  within  ourselves ;  .  .  .  there 
is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all,  where  truth  abides  in  fulness ;  "  etc.  See  pp.  24  and 
25  of  this  volume.  "  Life,  you've  granted  me,  develops  from  within.  But  inner- 
most of  the  inmost,  most  interior  of  the  interne,  God  claims  his  own.  Divine 
humanity  renewing  nature"  (Mrs.  Browning's  Aurora  Leigh).  Mrs.  M.  G.  Glaze- 
brook,  in  her  paper  on  A  Death  in  the  Desert,  read  at  the  48th  meeting  of  the 
Browning  Society,  Feb.  25th,  1887,  paraphrases  these  lines :  "  The  first  and  lowest 
[soul]  is  that  which  has  to  do  with  earth  and  corporeal  things,  the  animal  soul, 
which  receives  primary  sensations  and  is  the  immediate  cause  of  action  —  'what 
Does'  The  second  is  the  intellect,  and  has  its  seat  in  the  brain  :  it  is  superior  to 
the  first,  but  dependent  on  it,  since  it  receives  as  material  the  actual  experience 
which  the  animal  soul  supplies;  it  is  the  feeling,  thinking,  willing  soul  —  'what 
Knows.'  The  third,  and  highest,  is  the  spirit  of  man,  the  very  principle  of  life,  the 
divine  element  in  man  linking  him  to  God,  which  is  self-subsistent  and  therefore 
independent  of  sensation  and  knowledge,  but  nevertheless  makes  use  of  them,  and 
gives  them  existence  and  energy  —  'what  /s.'" 

113.  superficial  truth :  phenomenal,  relative  truth;  that  which  is  arrived  at 
through  the  senses,  and  belongs  to  the  domain  of  the  "what  Knows."  Essential, 
absolute  truth  can  be  known  only  through  a  response  thereto  of  the  essential,  the 
absolute,  the  "what  Is,"  in  man's  nature.  John  hns  attained  to  a  measure  of 
absolute  truth,  and  smiles  on  reverting  to  the  very  superficial  truth  of  things. 


338  A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Remember  all !     It  is  not  much  to  say. 

What  if  the  truth  broke  on  me  from  above 

As  once  and  oft-times?     Such  might  hap  again  :  120 

Doubtlessly  He  might  stand  in  presence  here, 

With  head  wool-white,  eyes,  flame,  and  feet  like  brass, 

The  sword  and  the  seven  stars,  as  I  have  seen  — 

I  who  now  shudder  only  and  surmise 

'  How  did  your  brother  bear  that  sight  and  live  ? '  125 

"  If  I  live  yet,  it  is  for  good,  more  love 

Through  me  to  men :  be  naught  but  ashes  here 

That  keep  awhile  my  semblance,  who  was  John,  — 

Still,  when  they  scatter,  there  is  left  on  earth 

No  one  alive  who  knew  (consider  this  !)  130 

—  Saw  with  his  eyes  and  handled  with  his  hands 

That  which  was  from  the  first,  the  Word  of  Life. 

How  will  it  be  when  none  more  saith  '  I  saw '  ? 

"  Such  ever  was  love's  way  :  to  rise,  it  stoops. 

Since  I,  whom  Christ's  mouth  taught,  was  bidden  teach,     135 

I  went,  for  many  years,  about  the  world, 

Saying,  '  It  was  so ;  so  I  heard  and  saw,' 

Speaking  as  the  case  asked  :  and  men  believed. 

Afterward  came  the  message  to  myself 

In  Patmos  isle  ;  I  was  not  bidden  teach.  140 

But  simply  listen,  take  a  book  and  write, 

Nor  set  down  other  than  the  given  word. 

With  nothing  left  to  my  arbitrament 

To  choose  or  change :  I  wrote,  and  men  believed. 

Then,  for  my  time  grew  brief,  no  message  more,  145 

No  call  to  write  again,  I  found  a  way, 

And,  reasoning  from  my  knowledge,  merely  taught 

121-123.   See  The  Revelation  of  St.  John,  chap.  I. 
125.  your  brother :  he  means  himself,  of  course. 


A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESP2RT. 


339 


Men  should,  for  love's  sake,  in'love's  strength,  believe  ; 

Or  I  would  pen  a  letter  to  a  friend, 

And  urge  the  same  as  friend,  nor  less  nor  more  :  150 

Friends  said  I  reasoned  rightly,  and  believed. 

But  at  the  last,  why,  I  seemed  left  alive 

Like  a  sea-jelly  weak  on  Patmos  strand, 

To  tell  dry  sea- beach  gazers  how  I  fared 

When  there  was  mid-sea,  and  the  mighty  things ;  155 

Left  to  repeat,  '  I  saw,  I  heard,  I  knew,' 

And  go  all  over  the  old  ground  again, 

With  Antichrist  already  in  the  world, 

And  many  Antichrists,  who  answered  prompt 

'  Am  I  not  Jasper  as  thyself  art  John  ?  160 

Nay,  young,  whereas  through  age  thou  mayest  forget : 

Wherefore,  explain,  or  how  shall  we  believe  ?  ' 

I  never  thought  to  call  down  fire  on  such, 

Or,  as  in  wonderful  and  early  days, 

Pick  up  the  scorpion,  tread  the  serpent  dumb ;  165 

But  patient  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work  : 

Since  much  that  at  the  first,  in  deed  and  word, 

Lay  simply  and  sufficiently  exposed, 

Had  grown  (or  else  my  soul  was  grown  to  match,  170 

Fed  through  such  years,  familiar  with  such  light, 

Guarded  and  guided  still  to  see  and  speak) 

Of  new  significance  and  fresh  result ; 

What  first  were  guessed  as  points,  I  now  knew  stars, 

And  named  them  in  the  Gospel  I  have  writ.  175 

For  men  said,  '  It  is  getting  long  ago  : 

Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?  '  — asked 

These  young  ones  in  their  strength,  as  loth  to  wait, 

Of  me  who,  when  their  sires  were  born,  was  old. 


156.  I  saw,  I  heard,  I  knew :   expressions  which  occur  throughout  John's 
Revelation. 


340  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

I,  for  I  loved  them,  answered,  joyfully,  180 

Since  I  was  there,  and  helpful  in  my  age ; 

And,  in  the  main,  I  think  such  men  believed. 

Finally,  thus  endeavoring,  I  fell  sick. 

Ye  brought  me  here,  and  I  supposed  the  end, 

And  went  to  sleep  with  one  thought  that,  at  least,  185 

Though  the  whole  earth  should  lie  in  wickedness, 

We  had  the  truth,  might  leave  the  rest  to  God. 

Yet  now  I  wake  in  such  decrepitude 

As  I  had  slidden  down  and  fallen  afar, 

Past  even  the  presence  of  my  former  self,  190 

Grasping  the  while  for  stay  at  facts  which  snap, 

Till  I  am  found  away  from  my  own  world, 

Feeling  for  foot-hold  through  a  blank  profound, 

Along  with  unborn  people  in  strange  lands, 

Who  say  —  I  hear  said  or  conceive  they  say —  195 

*  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw  ? 

Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see  ! ' 

"  And  how  shall  I  assure  them  ?    Can  they  share 
—  They,  who  have  flesh,  a  veil  of  youth  and  strength 

188-197.  The  poet  provides,  in  these  lines,  for  the  prophetic  character  of  John's 
discourse,  its  solution  of  the  difficulties  destined  to  beset  Christianity  in  the  future, 
and  especially  of  those  which  have  been  raised  in  our  own  times.  The  historical 
bulwarks  which  the  Strausses  and  the  Renans  have  endeavored  to  destroy,  Christ- 
ianity, in  its  essential,  absolute  character,  its  adaptiveness  to  spiritual  vitality,  and 
the  wants  of  the  soul,  can  do  without.  Indeed,  there  will  be  much  gained  when  the 
historical  character  of  Christianity  is  generally  disregarded.  Its  impregnable  for- 
tress, namely,  the  Personality,  Jesus  Christ,  will  remain,  and  mankind  will  forever 
seek  and  find  refuge  in  it.  Arthur  Symons,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  Study  of 
Browning,  remarks:  .  .  .  "  it  is  as  a  piece  of  ratiocination  —  suffused,  indeed,  with 
imagination  —  that  the  poem  seems  to  have  its  raison  d'etre.  The  bearing  of  this 
argument  on  contemporary  theories,  may  to  some  appear  a  merit,  to  others  a  blem- 
ish. To  make  the  dying  John  refute  Strauss  or  Renan,  handling  their  propositions 
with  admirable  dialectical  skill,  is  certainly,  on  the  face  of  it,  somewhat  hazardous. 
But  I  can  see  no  real  incongruity  in  imputing  to  the  seer  of  Patmos  a  prophetic 
insight  into  the  future  —  no  real  inconsequence  in  imagining  the  opponent  of  Cerin- 
thus  spending  his  last  breath  in  the  defence  of  Christian  truth  against  a  foreseen 
scepticism." 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  34 1 

About  each  spirit,  that  needs  must  bide  its  time,  200 

Living  and  learning  still  as  years  assist 

Which  wear  the  thickness  thin,  and  let  man  see  — 

With  me  who  hardly  am  withheld  at  all, 

But  shudderingly,  scarce  a  shred  between, 

Lie  bare  to  the  universal  prick  of  light?  205 

Is  it  for  nothing  we  grow  old  and  weak, 

We  whom  God  loves?    When  pain  ends,  gain  ends  too. 

To  me,  that  story  —  ay,  that  Life  and  Death 

Of  which  I  wrote  '  it  was  '  —  to  me,  it  is  ; 

—  Is,  here  and  now  :  I  apprehend  naught  else.  210 

Is  not  God  now  i'  the  world  His  power  first  made  ? 

Is  not  His  love  at  issue  still  with  sin, 

Visibly  when  a  wrong  is  done  on  earth? 

Love,  wrong,  and  pain,  what  see  I  else  around  ? 

Yea,  and  the  Resurrection  and  Uprise  215 

To  the  right  hand  of  the  throne  —  what  is  it  beside, 

When  such  truth,  breaking  bounds,  o'erfloods  my  soul, 

And,  as  I  saw  the  sin  and  death,  even  so 

See  I  the  need  yet  transiency  of  both, 

The  good  and  glory  consummated  thence  ?  220 

202.  "  Oh,  not  alone  when  life  flows  still  do  truth  and  power  emerge,  but  also 
when  strange  chance  ruffles  its  current;    in  unused  conjuncture,  when  sickness 
breaks  the  body  —  hunger,  watching,  excess,  or  languor  —  oftenest  death's  approach 
—  peril,  deep  joy,  or  woe."     Browning's  Paracelsus. 

"  The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  Time  has  made. 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new."  — Edmund  \Valltr. 

"  Drawing  near  her  death ,  she  sent  most  pious  thoughts  as  harbingers  to  heaven  ; 
and  her  soul  saw  a  glimpse  of  happiness  through  the  chinks  of  her  sickness- 
broken  body."  Fuller's  Holy  and  Profane  State,  Book  /.,  chap.  2. 

203.  With  me  :  connect  with  '  share,'  v.  198. 
208-209.  See  p.  62  of  this  volume. 


342 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

I  saw  the  Power ;  I  see  the  Love,  once  weak, 

Resume  the  Power  :  and  in  this  word  '  I  see,' 

Lo,  there  is  recognized  the  Spirit  of  both 

That  moving  o'er  the  spirit  of  man,  unblinds 

His  eye  and  bids  him  look.     These  are,  I  see ;  225 

But  ye,  the  children,  His  beloved  ones  too, 

Ye  need,  —  as  I  should  use  an  optic  glass 

I  wondered  at  erewhile,  somewhere  i'  the  world, 

It  had  been  given  a  crafty  smith  to  make ; 

A  tube,  he  turned  on  objects  brought  too  close,  230 

Lying  confusedly  insubordinate 

For  the  unassisted  eye  to  master  once  : 

Look  through  his  tube,  at  distance  now  they  lay, 

Become  succinct,  distinct,  so  small,  so  clear  ! 

Just  thus,  ye  needs  must  apprehend  what  truth  235 

I  see,  reduced  to  plain  historic  fact, 

Diminished  into  clearness,  proved  a  point 

And  far  away :  ye  would  withdraw  your  sense 

From  out  eternity,  strain  it  upon  time, 

Then  stand  before  that  fact,  that  Life  and  Death,  240 

Stay  there  at  gaze,  till  it  dispart,  dispread, 

As  though  a  star  should  open  out,  all  sides, 

Grow  the  world  on  you,  as  it  is  my  world. 

"  For  life,  with  all  it  yields  of  joy  and  woe, 

And  hope  and  fear,  —  believe  the  aged  friend,  —  245 

Is  just  our  chance  o'  the  prize  of  learning  love, 

How  love  might  be,  hath  been  indeed,  and  is ; 

And  that  we  hold  thenceforth  to  the  uttermost 

Such  prize  despite  the  envy  of  the  world, 

And,  having  gained  truth,  keep  truth  :  that  is  all.  250 

But  see  the  double  way  wherein  we  are  led, 

How  the  soul  learns  diversely  from  the  flesh  ! 

221-225.  See  stanzas  9  and  10  of  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  p.  288. 
227.  an  optic  glass :  perhaps  anachronistic. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


343 


With  flesh,  that  hath  so  little  time  to  stay, 

And  yields  mere  basement  for  the  soul's  emprise, 

Expect  prompt  teaching.     Helpful  was  the  light,  255 

And  warmth  was  cherishing  and  food  was  choice 

To  every  man's  flesh,  thousand  years  ago, 

As  now  to  yours  and  mine ;  the  body  sprang 

At  once  to  the  height,  and  staid  :  but  the  soul,  —  no  ! 

Since  sages  who,  this  noontide,  meditate  260 

In  Rome  or  Athens,  may  descry  some  point 

Of  the  eternal  power,  hid  yestereve ; 

And,  as  thereby  the  power's  whole  mass  extends, 

So  much  extends  the  ether  floating  o'er 

The  love  that  tops  the  might,  the  Christ  in  God.  265 

Then,  as  new  lessons  shall  be  learned  in  these 

Till  earth's  work  stop  and  useless  time  run  out, 

So  duly,  daily,  needs  provision  be 

For  keeping  the  soul's  prowess  possible, 

Building  new  barriers  as  the  old  decay,  270 

Saving  us  from  evasion  of  life's  proof, 

Putting  the  question  ever,  '  Does  God  love, 

And  will  ye  hold  that  truth  against  the  world  ? ' 

Ye  know  there  needs  no  second  proof  with  good 

Gained  for  our  flesh  from  any  earthly  source :  275 

We  might  go  freezing,  ages,  —  give  us  fire, 

Thereafter  we  judge  fire  at  its  full  worth, 

And  guard  it  safe  through  every  chance,  ye  know ! 

That  fable  of  Prometheus  and  his  theft, 

How  mortals  gained  Jove's  fiery  flower,  grows  old  280 

(I  have  been  used  to  hear  the  pagans  own) 

And  out  of  mind  ;  but  fire,  howe'er  its  birth, 

Here  is  it,  precious  to  the  sophist  now 

Who  laughs  the  myth  of  ^schylus  to  scorn, 

As  precious  to  those  satyrs  of  his  play,  285 

284.  the  myth  of  JEscbylus  :  embodied  in  his  Prometheus  Bound. 


344  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Who  touched  it  in  gay  wonder  at  the  thing. 

While  were  it  so  with  the  soul,  —  this  gift  of  truth 

Once  grasped,  were  this  our  soul's  gain  safe,  and  sure 

To  prosper  as  the  body's  gain  is  wont,  — 

Why,  man's  probation  would  conclude,  his  earth  290 

Crumble ;  for  he  both  reasons  and  decides, 

Weighs  first,  then  chooses  :  will  he  give  up  fire 

For  gold  or  purple  once  he  knows  its  worth  ? 

Could  he  give  Christ  up  were  His  worth  as  plain? 

Therefore,  I  say,  to  test  man,  the  proofs  shift,  295 

Nor  may  he  grasp  that  fact  like  other  fact, 

And  straightway  in  his  life  acknowledge  it, 

As,  say,  the  indubitable  bliss  of  fire. 

Sigh  ye,  '  It  had  been  easier  once  than  now  ? ' 

To  give  you  answer  I  am  left  alive  ;  300 

Look  at  me  who  was  present  from  the  first ! 

Ye  know  what  things  I  saw ;  then  came  a  test, 

My  first,  befitting  me  who  so  had  seen  : 

'  Forsake  the  Christ  thou  sawest  transfigured,  Him 

Who  trod  the  sea  and  brought  the  dead  to  life  ?  305 

What  should  wring  this  from  thee  ? '  —  ye  laugh  and  ask. 

What  wrung  it?     Even  a  torchlight  and  a  noise, 

The  sudden  Roman  faces,  violent  hands, 

And  fear  of  what  the  Jews  might  do  !  Just  that, 

And  it  is  written,  '  I  forsook  and  fled  : '  310 

There  was  my  trial,  and  it  ended  thus. 

Ay,  but  my  soul  had  gained  its  truth,  could  grow  : 

Another  year  or  two,  —  what  little  child, 

What  tender  woman  that  had  seen  no  least 


295.  the  proofs  shift :  see  pp.  37  and  38.  Objective  proofs,  in  spiritual  mat- 
ters, need  reconstruction,  again  and  again ;  and  whatever  may  be  their  character, 
they  are  inadequate,  and  must  finally,  in  the  Christian  life,  be  superseded  by  sub- 
jective proofs  —  by  man's  winning  his  way  to  the  kingdom  of  eternal  truth  within 
himself —  the  kingdom  of  the  "  what  Is." 

307-310.  See  Matt,  xxvi,  56 ;  Mark  xiv,  50;  Johnxviii,  3. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


345 


Of  all  my  sights,  but  barely  heard  them  told,  315 

Who  did  not  clasp  the  cross  with  a  light  laugh, 

Or  wrap  the  burning  robe  round,  thanking  God  ? 

Well,  was  truth  safe  forever,  then  ?     Not  so. 

Already  had  begun  the  silent  work 

Whereby  truth,  deadened  of  its  absolute  blaze,  320 

Might  need  love's  eye  to  pierce  the  o'erstretched  doubt. 

Teachers  were  busy,  whispering  '  All  is  true 

As  the  aged  ones  report ;  but  youth  can  reach 

Where  age  gropes  dimly,  weak  with  stir  and  strain, 

And  the  full  doctrine  slumbers  till  to-day.'  325 

Thus,  what  the  Roman's  lowered  spear  was  found, 

A  bar  to  me  who  touched  and  handled  truth, 

Now  proved  the  glozing  of  some  new  shrewd  tongue, 

This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus  or  their  mates, 


326-328.  what  the  Roman's  lowered  spear  was  found  to  be,  namely,  a 
bar,  etc.,  now  proved  to  be,  etc. 

329.  This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus:  see  Gibbon's  History  of  the  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Chaps,  xv,  xxi,  xlvii.  And  see,  especially,  the  able  articles, 
"  Cerinthus  "  and  "  Ebionism  and  Ebionites,"  in  the  Dictionary  of  Christian  Biog- 
raphy, etc.,  edited  by  Dr.  William  Smith  and  Professor  Wace.  " '  Ebion '  as  a  name 
first  personified  by  Tertullian,  was  said  to  have  been  a  pupil  of  Cerinthus,  and  the 
Gospel  of  St.  John  to  have  been  as  much  directed  against  the  former  as  the  latter. 
St.  Paul  and  St.  Luke  were  asserted  to  have  spoken  and  written  against  Ebionites. 
The  '  Apostolical  Constitutions '  (vi.  c.  6)  traced  them  back  to  Apostolic  times ; 
Theodoret  (Hczr.fab.  II.  c.  2)  assigned  them  to  the  reign  of  Domitian  (A.D.  81- 
96).  The  existence  of  an  'Ebion'  is,  however,  now  surrendered."  From  Art. 
Ebionism  in  Diet,  of  Christian  Biography. 

And  see  Prof.  George  P.  Fisher's  Beginnings  of  Christianity,  1877. 

"  Cerinthus,  a  man  who  was  educated  in  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians,  taught 
that  the  world  was  not  made  by  the  primary  God,  but  by  a  certain  power  far  sepa- 
rated from  him,  and  at  a  distance  from  that  Principality  who  is  supreme  over  the 
universe,  and  ignorant  of  him  who  is  above  all.  He  represented  Jesus  as  having 
not  been  born  of  a  virgin,  but  as  being  the  son  of  Joseph  and  Mary  according  to 
the  ordinary  course  of  human  generation,  while  he  nevertheless  was  more  right- 
eous, prudent,  and  wise  than  other  men.  Moreover,  after  his  baptism,  Christ 
descended  upon  him  in  the  form  of  a  dove  from  the  Supreme  Ruler,  and  that  then 
he  proclaimed  the  unknown  Father,  and  performed  miracles.  But  at  last  Christ 
departed  from  Jesus,  and  that  then  Jesus  suffered  and  rose  again,  while  Christ 


346  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Till  imminent  was  the  outcry  '  Save  our  Christ ! '  330 

Whereon  I  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work. 

Such  work  done,  as  it  will  be,  what  comes  next  ? 

What  do  I  hear  say,  or  conceive  men  say, 

'  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw?  335 

Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see  ! ' 

"  Is  this  indeed  a  burthen  for  late  days, 

And  may  I  help  to  bear  it  with  you  all, 

Using  my  weakness  which  becomes  your  strength? 

For  if  a  babe  were  born  inside  this  grot,  340 

Grew  to  a  boy  here,  heard  us  praise  the  sun, 

Yet  had  but  yon  sole  glimmer  in  light's  place,  — 

One  loving  him  and  wishful  he  should  learn, 

Would  much  rejoice  himself  was  blinded  first 

Month  by  month  here,  so  made  to  understand  34c 

How  eyes,  born  darkling,  apprehend  amiss  : 

I  think  I  could  explain  to  such  a  child 

There  was  more  glow  outside  than  gleams  he  caught, 

Ay,  nor  need  urge  '  I  saw  it,  so  believe  ! ' 

It  is  a  heavy  burthen  you  shall  bear  350 

In  latter  days,  new  lands,  or  old  grown  strange, 

Left  without  me,  which  must  be  very  soon. 

What  is  the  doubt,  my  brothers  ?     Quick  with  it ! 

I  see  you  stand  conversing,  each  new  face, 

Either  in  fields,  of  yellow  summer  eves,  355 

On  islets  yet  unnamed  amid  the  sea ; 

remained  impassible,  inasmuch  as  he  was  a  spiritual  being."  The  Writings  of 
Irenceus,  transl.  by  Rev.  Alexander  Roberts,  D.D.,  and  Rev.  W.  H.  Rambaut,  A.B., 
Edinburgh,  1868.  Vol.  /.,  Book  I.,  Chap.  xxvi. 

346.  darkling  :  an  old  adverbial  form  ;  in  the  dark.  See  P.  L.,  III.  39.  "  O, 
wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?  "  Sh's  M.  N.  D.,  II.  2.  86;  "  So,  out  went  the  can- 
dle, and  we  were  left  darkling."  Lear,  I.  4.  237 ;  also  A.  and  C.,  IV.  15.  10. 

353.  What  is  the  doubt,  my  brothers  ?  He  addresses  his  brothers  of  the 
far  future.  The  eight  following  verses  are  very  beautiful. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  347 

Or  pace  for  shelter  'neath  a  portico 

Out  of  the  crowd  in  some  enormous  town 

Where  now  the  larks  sing  in  a  solitude ; 

Or  muse  upon  blank  heaps  of  stone  and  sand  360 

Idly  conjectured  to  be  Ephesus  : 

And  no  one  asks  his  fellow  any  more 

'  Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming  ?  '  but 

'  Was  He  revealed  in  any  of  His  lives, 

As  Power,  as  Love,  as  Influencing  Soul  ? '  365 

"  Quick,  for  time  presses,  tell  the  whole  mind  out, 

And  let  us  ask  and  answer  and  be  saved  ! 

My  book  speaks  on,  because  it  cannot  pass ; 

One  listens  quietly,  nor  scoffs  but  pleads 

'  Here  is  a  tale  of  things  done  ages  since  :  370 

What  truth  was  ever  told  the  second  day  ? 

Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine,  go  for  naught. 

Remains  the  doctrine,  love  ;  well,  we  must  love, 

And  what  we  love  most,  power  and  love  in  one, 

Let  us  acknowledge  on  the  record  here,  375 

Accepting  these  in  Christ :  must  Christ  then  be  ? 

Has  He  been?     Did  not  we  ourselves  make  Him? 

Our  mind  receives  but  what  it  holds,  no  more. 

362-365.  The  question,  "  Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?  "  asked 
in  John's  own  day,  gives  place  in  the  far  future  to  which  the  ken  of  the  dying  Apostle 
extends,  to  the  question  whether  God  was  indeed  revealed  in  Christ,  as  Power, 
as  Love,  as  Influencing  Soul,  or  whether,  man  having  already  love  in  him- 
self, Christ  were  not  a  mere  projection  from  man's  inmost  mind  (v.  383)  ?  If  so 
there  is  nothing  to  fall  back  on  but  force,  or  natural  law.  This  anticipated  ques- 
tioning and  reasoning  extends  from  v.  370  to  v.  421. 

367.  And  let  us  ask  and  answer :  John's  talk,  it  must  be  understood,  is 
with  future  people,  not  with  ttie  attendants. 

368.  My  book  speaks  on :  that  is,  to  people  of  all  futures,  because  it  cannot 
pass  away.  , 

371.  What  truth,  etc. :  that  is,  truth  is  soon  perverted,  obscured,  and  often 
turned  into  positive  untruth. 

372.  Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine  :  that  is,  whose  purpose  was 
to  prove. 


348  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

First  of  the  love,  then ;  we  acknowledge  Christ  — 
A  proof  we  comprehend  His  love,  a  proof  380 

We  had  such  love  already  in  ourselves, 
Knew  first  what  else  we  should  not  recognize. 
Tis  mere  projection  from  man's  inmost  mind, 
And,  what  he  loves,  thus  falls  reflected  back, 
Becomes  accounted  somewhat  out  of  him  ;  385 

He  throws  it  up  in  air,  it  drops  down  earth's, 
With  shape,  name,  story  added,  man's  old  way. 
How  prove  you  Christ  came  otherwise  at  least? 
Next  try  the  power :  He  made  and  rules  the  world  : 
Certes  there  is  a  world  once  made,  now  ruled,  390 

Unless  things  have  been  ever  as  we  see. 
Our  sires  declared  a  charioteer's  yoked  steeds 
Brought  the  sun  up  the  east  and  down  the  west, 
Which  only  of  itself  now  rises,  sets, 

As  if  a  hand  impelled  it  and  a  will, —  395 

Thus  they  long  thought,  they  who  had  will  and  hands  : 
But  the  new  question's  whisper  is  distinct, 
Wherefore  must  all  force  needs  be  like  ourselves  ? 
We  have  the  hands,  the  will ;  what  made  and  drives 
The  sun  is  force,  is  law,  is  named,  not  known,  400 

While  will  and  love  we  do  know ;  marks  of  these. 
Eye-witnesses  attest,  so  books  declare  — 
As  that,  to  punish  or  reward  our  race, 
The  sun  at  undue  times  arose  or  set 

Or  else  stood  still :  what  do  not  men  affirm  ?  405 

But  earth  requires  as  urgently  reward 
Or  punishment  to-day  as  years  ago, 
And  none  expects  the  sun  will  interpose  : 
Therefore  it  was  mere  passion  and  mistake, 
Or  erring  zeal  for  right,  which  changed  the  truth.  410 

Go  back,  far,  farther,  to  the  birth  of  things ; 
Ever  the  will,  the  intelligence,  the  love, 
385.  Comes  to  be  considered  as  something  outside  of,  and  distinct  from,  himself. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


349 


Man's  !  — which  he  gives,  supposing  he  but  finds, 

As  late  he  gave  head,  body,  hands,  and  feet, 

To  help  these  in  what  forms  he  called  his  gods.  415 

First,  Jove's  brow,  Juno's  eyes  were  swept  away, 

But  Jove's  wrath,  Juno's  pride  continued  long ; 

At  last,  will,  power,  and  love  discarded  these, 

So  law  in  turn  discards  power,  love,  and  will. 

What  proveth  God  is  otherwise  at  least  ?  420 

All  else,  projection  from  the  mind  of  man  ! ' 

"  Nay,  do  not  give  me  wine,  for  I  am  strong, 
But  place  my  gospel  where  I  put  my  hands. 

"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  stop  ; 

That  help,  he  needed  once,  and  needs  no  more,  425 

Having  grown  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn  : 

For  he  hath  new  needs,  and  new  helps  to  these. 

This  imports  solely,  man  should  mount  on  each 

New  height  in  view ;  the  help  whereby  he  mounts, 

The  ladder-rung  his  foot  has  left,  may  fall,  430 

Since  all  things  suffer  change  save  God  the  Truth. 

Man  apprehends  Him  newly  at  each  stage 

Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  service  done  ; 

And  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what  once  was  proved. 

You  stick  a  garden-plot  with  ordered  twigs  435 

To  show  inside  lie  germs  of  herbs  unborn, 

424.  Here  John's  answer  begins  to  the  questioning  and  reasoning  contained  in 
vv.  370-421. 

In  vv.  424-434,  is  contained  a  favorite  teaching  of  Browning.  It  appears  in  vari- 
ous forms  throughout  his  poetry.  See  the  quotation  from  Luriu,  p.  38. 

428.   This  imports  solely  :  this  is  the  one  all  important  thing. 

428-430.   A  similar  comparison  is  used  in  Julius  Ccesar,  A.  II.,  S.  I.,  22-27  : 

..."  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  his  face; 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  upmost  round, 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 
By  which  he  did  ascend." 


35O  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

And  check  the  careless  step  would  spoil  their  birth ; 

But  when  herbs  wave,  the  guardian  twigs  may  go, 

Since  should  ye  doubt  of  virtues,  question  kinds, 

It  is  no  longer  for  old  twigs  ye  look,  440 

Which  proved  once  underneath-  lay  store  of  seed, 

But  to  the  herb's  self,  by  what  light  ye  boast, 

For  what  fruit's  signs  are.     This  book's  fruit  is  plain, 

Nor  miracles  need  prove  it  any  more. 

Doth  the  fruit  show?     Then  miracles  bade  'ware  445 

At  first  of  root  and  stem,  saved  both  till  now 

From  trampling  ox,  rough  boar,  and  wanton  goat. 

What?     Was  man  made  a  wheelwork  to  wind  up, 

And  be  discharged,  and  straight  wound  up  anew? 

No  !  — grown,  his  growth  lasts  ;  taught,  he  ne'er  forgets  :   450 

May  learn  a  thousand  things,  not  twice  the  same. 

This  might  be  pagan  teaching  :  now  hear  mine. 

"  I  say,  that  as  the  babe,  you  feed  awhile, 

Becomes  a  boy  and  fit  to  feed  himself, 

So,  minds  at  first  must  be  spoon-fed  with  truth :  455 

When  they  can  eat,  babe's  nurture  is  withdrawn. 

I  fed  the  babe  whether  it  would  or  no : 

I  bid  the  boy  or  feed  himself  or  starve. 

I  cried  once,  '  That  ye  may  believe  in  Christ, 

Behold  this  blind  man  shall  receive  his  sight ! '  460 

I  cry  now,  '  Urgest  thou,  for  I  am  shrewd, 

And  smile  at  stories  how  John's  word  could  cure  — 

Repeat  that  miracle  and  take  my  faith  ?  ' 

I  say,  that  miracle  was  duly  wrought 

When,  save  for  it,  no  faith  was  possible.  465 

Whether  a  change  were  wrought  i'  the  shows  o'  the  world, 

Whether  the  change  came  from  our  minds  which  see 

Of  shows  o'  the  world  so  much  as  and  no  more 

452.  This  might  be  pagan  teaching :  that  is,  even  pagan  teaching  might 
go  so  far  as  this. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  351 

Than  God  wills  for  His  purpose,  —  (what  do  I 

See  now,  suppose  you,  there  where  you  see  rock  470 

Round  us  ?)  —  I  know  not ;  such  was  the  effect, 

So  faith  grew,  making  void  more  miracles 

Because  too  much  :  they  would  compel,  not  help. 

I  say,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  in  Christ 

Accepted  by  thy  reason,  solves  for  thee  475 

All  questions  in  the  earth  and  out  of  it, 

And  has  so  far  advanced  thee  to  be  wise. 

Wouldst  thou  unprove  this  to  re-prove  the  proved  ? 

In  life's  mere  minute,  with  power  to  use  that  proof, 

Leave  knowledge  and  revert  to  how  it  sprung?  480 

Thou  hast  it ;  use  it  and  forthwith,  or  die  ! 

"  For  I  say,  this  is  death  and  the  sole  death, 

When  a  man's  loss  comes  to  him  from  his  gain, 

Darkness  from  light,  from  knowledge  ignorance, 

And  lack  of  love  from  love  made  manifest ;  485 

A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with  oil,  it  chokes ; 

A  stomach's  when,  surcharged  with  food,  it  starves. 

With  ignorance  was  surety  of  a  cure. 

When  man,  appalled  at  nature,  questioned  first 

'What  if  there  lurk  a  might  behind  this  might?'  490 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 

And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word  : 

But  when  he  finds  might  still  redouble  might, 

Yet  asks,  '  Since  all  is  might,  what  use  of  will  ?  ' 

—  Will,  the  one  source  of  might,  —  he  being  man  495 

472.  So  faith  grew,  making  void  more  miracles :  the  outward  manifesta- 
tions of  spiritual  powers  (Sv^a/u?,  power,  act  of  power,  and  a^\\t.tiovt  sign,  token,  are 
the  original  words  in  the  N.  T.,  which  are  translated  '  miracle ')  gave  place  to  sub- 
jective proof.  Christianity  was  endorsed  by  man's  own  soul.  To  this  may  be  added, 
that  even  the  historical  bulwarks  of  Christianity  may,  ere  long,  be  dispensed  with. 

474-481.  These  verses  may  be  taken  as  presenting  Browning's  own  conclusion 
as  to  the  whole  duty  of  man,  in  a  spiritual  direction.  And  see  the  quotation  from 
Christmas  Eve  and  the  remarks  which  follow,  on  pp.  63  and  64. 


352  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

With  a  man's  will  and  a  man's  might,  to  teach 
In  little  how  the  two  combine  in  large,  — 
That  man  has  turned  round  on  himself  and  stands, 
Which  in  the  course  of  nature  is,  to  die. 

"  And  when  man  questioned, '  What  if  there  be  love  500 

Behind  the  will  and  might,  as  real  as  they  ? '  — 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 

And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word  : 

But  when,  beholding  that  love  everywhere, 

He  reasons,  '  Since  such  love  is  everywhere,  505 

And  since  ourselves  can  love  and  would  be  loved, 

We  ourselves  make  the  love,  and  Christ  was  not,' — 

How  shall  ye  help  this  man  who  knows  himself, 

That  he  must  love  and  would  be  loved  again, 

Yet,  owning  his  own  love  that  proveth  Christ,  510 

Rejecteth  Christ  through  very  need  of  Him  ? 

The  lamp  o'erswims  with  oil,  the  stomach  flags 

Loaded  with  nurture,  and  that  man's  soul  dies. 

"  If  he  rejoin,  '  But  this  was  all  the  while 

A  trick  ;  the  fault  was,  first  of  all,  in  thee,  515 

Thy  story  of  the  places,  names  and  dates, 

Where,  when,  and  how  the  ultimate  truth  had  rise, 

—  Thy  prior  truth,  at  last  discovered  none, 

Whence  now  the  second  suffers  detriment. 

What  good  of  giving  knowledge  if,  because  520 

O'  the  manner  of  the  gift,  its  profit  fail? 

514-539.  John  anticipates  another  objection  that  will  be  made  to  his  Gospel, 
namely,  that  so  many  things  therein  are  not  cleared  up,  that  the  whole  truth  is  not 
told  in  the  proper  words,  the  sceptic  claiming  that  everything  should  have  been  so 
proved 

"  That  the  probation  bear  no  hinge  nor  loop 
To  hang  a  doubt  on  "; 

that  all  after-doubt,  impossible  in  the  face  of  truth  —  truth  absolute,  uniform,  might 
have  been  stopped. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  353 

And  why  refuse  what  modicum  of  help 
Had  stopped  the  after-doubt,  impossible 
I'  the  face  of  truth  —  truth  absolute,  uniform? 
Why  must  I  hit  of  this  and  miss  of  that,  525 

Distinguish  just  as  I  be  weak  or  strong, 
And  not  ask  of  thee  and  have  answer  prompt, 
Was  this  once,  was  it  not  once? —  then  and  now 
And  evermore,  plain  truth  from  man  to  man. 
Is  John's  procedure  just  the  heathen  bard's?  S3o 

Put  question  of  his  famous  play  again 
How  for  the  ephemerals'  sake,  Jove's  fire  was  filched, 
And  carried  in  a  cane  and  brought  to  earth  : 
The  fact  is  in  the  fable,  cry  the  wise, 

Mortals  obtained  the  boon,  so  much  is  fact,  535 

Though  fire  be  spirit  and  produced  on  earth. 
As  with  the  Titan's,  so  now  with  thy  tale  : 
'Why  breed  in  us  perplexity,  mistake, 
Nor  tell  the  whole  truth  in  the  proper  words  ? ' 

"  I  answer,  Have  ye  not  to  argue  out  540 

The  very  primal  thesis,  plainest  law, 

—  Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end  to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take, 

Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to  become  ? 

Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from  old  to  new,  545 

From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to  fact, 

From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what  now  proves  best. 

How  could  man  have  progression  otherwise? 

523.  Had  stopped :  would  have  stopped. 

530.  the  heathen  bard's :  ^tschylus'. 

531.  famous  play  :  Prometheus  Bound. 

532.  ephemerals' :  mortals'. 
537.  Titan's:  Prometheus'. 

540-633.  All  that  John  says  in  these  verses,  in  reply  to  the  anticipated  objections 
urged  in  vv.  514-539,  are  found,  substantially,  in  several  passages  in  Browning's 
poetry.  See  remarks  on  pp.  36-38  beginning,  "  The  human  soul  is  regarded  in 


354  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Before  the  point  was  mooted  '  What  is  God  ?  ' 

No  savage  man  inquired  '  What  is  myself?  '  550 

Much  less  replied,  '  First,  last,  and  best  of  things.' 

Man  takes  that  title  now  if  he  believes 

Might  can  exist  with  neither  will  nor  love, 

In  God's  case  —  what  he  names  now  Nature's  Law  — 

While  in  himself  he  recognizes  love  555 

No  less  than  might  and  will :  and  rightly  takes. 

Since  if  man  prove  the  sole  existent  thing 

Where  these  combine,  whatever  their  degree, 

However  weak  the  might  or  will  or  love, 

So  they  be  found  there,  put  in  evidence,  —  560 

Browning's  poetry,"  etc.  An  infallible  guide,  which  would  render  unnecessary  any 
struggles  on  man's  part,  after  light  and  truth,  would  torpify  his  powers.  And  see 
w.  582-633  of  the  present  poem. 

552.  Man  takes  that  title  now:  that  is,  of '  First,  last,  and  best  of  things," 
if,  etc.  See  sections  17  and  18  of  Saul,  pp.  329-331,  and  stanza  10  of  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra,  p.  288.  And  see  the  grand  dying  speech  of  Paracelsus,  which  concludes 
Browning's  poem. 

554,  "  A  law  of  nature  means  nothing  to  Mr.  Browning  if  it  does  not  mean  the 
immanence  of  power,  and  will,  and  love.  He  can  pass  with  ready  sympathy  into 
the  mystical  feeling  of  the  East,  where  in  the  unclouded  sky,  in  the  torrent  of 
noonday  light,  God  is  so  near 

'  He  glows  above 

With  scarce  an  intervention,  presses  close 
And  palpitatingly,  His  soul  o'er  ours.' 

But  the  wisdom  of  a  Western  savant  who  in  his  superior  intellectuality  replaces  the 
will  of  God  by  the  blind  force  of  nature,  seems  to  Mr.  Browning  to  be  science 
falsely  so  called,  a  new  ignorance  founded  upon  knowledge, 

'  A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with  oil,  it  chokes.' 

To  this  effect  argues  the  prophet  John  in  A  Death  in  the  Desert,  anticipating  with 
the  deep  prevision  of  a  dying  man  the  doubts  and  questionings  of  modern  days. 
And  in  the  third  of  those  remarkable  poems  which  form  the  epilogue  of  the 
Dramatis  Persona,  the  whole  world  rises  in  the  speaker's  imagination  into  one 
vast  spiritual  temple,  in  which  voices  of  singers,  and  swell  of  trumpets,  and  cries  of 
priests  are  heard  going  up  to  God  no  less  truly  than  in  the  old  Jewish  worship, 
while  the  face  of  Christ,  instinct  with  divine  will  and  love,  becomes  apparent,  as 
that  of  which  all  nature  is  a  type  or  an  adumbration."  —  Prof.  Edward  Dowden 
in  his  Comparative  Study  of  Browning  and  Tennyson  (Studies  in  Literature, 
1789-1877). 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


355 


He  is  as  surely  higher  in  the  scale 

Than  any  might  with  neither  love  nor  will, 

As  life,  apparent  in  the  poorest  midge 

(When  the  faint  dust-speck  flits,  ye  guess  its  wing), 

Is  marvellous  beyond  dead  Atlas'  self —  565 

Given  to  the  nobler  midge  for  resting-place  ! 

Thus,  man  proves  best  and  highest  —  God,  in  fine, 

And  thus  the  victory  leads  but  to  defeat, 

The  gain  to  loss,  best  rise  to  the  worst  fall, 

His  life  becomes  impossible,  which  is  death.  570 

"  But  if,  appealing  thence,  he  cower,  avouch 

He  is  mere  man,  and  in  humility 

Neither  may  know  God  nor  mistake  himself; 

I  point  to  the  immediate  consequence 

And  say,  by  such  confession  straight  he  falls  575 

Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor  beast, 

Made  to  know  that  he  can  know  and  not  more  : 

Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and  can  all, 

Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and  can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an  end,  580 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor  craving  more  ; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside, 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact, 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 

Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use,  585 

Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark  alone, 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are, 

Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  no  more  attend  his  soul 

Were  all  it  struggles  after  found  at  first  590 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute, 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 

Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side, 

Where  now  through  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  rest. 


356  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned,  must  expect  595 

He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now,  know  at  first ; 

What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to-day, 

Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  misknown ; 

Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since  he  learns 

Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a  man,  600 

Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past  self: 

First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts  to  learn, 

Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his  own  mind, 

Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned  to  law. 

God's  gift  was  that  man  should  conceive  of  truth,  605 

And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mistake, 

As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  indeed. 

The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 

Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 

The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same ;  610 

So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout, 

Cries  ever  '  Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see  : ' 

Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 

From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself.    . 

How  were  it  had  he  cried  '  I  see  no  face,  615 

No  breast,  no  feet  i'  the  ineffectual  clay  ? ' 

Rather  commend  him  that  he  clapped  his  hands, 

And  laughed  '  It  is  my  shape  and  lives  again  ! ' 

Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on  to  truth, 

Until  yourselves  applaud  the  flesh  indeed  620 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 

Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way  be  man's  ! 

God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a  jet. 

Will  ye  renounce  this  pact  of  creatureship  ? 

The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no  more,  625 

Seemed  awhile,  then  returned  to  nothingness ; 

But  copies,  Moses  strove  to  make  thereby, 

Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time  requires  : 

By  these,  make  newest  vessels,  reach  the  type  ! 


A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


357 


If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your  head,  630 

Never  to  reach  the  ultimate,  angels'  law, 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 

There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing  ! 

"  Such  is  the  burthen  of  the  latest  time. 

I  have  survived  to  hear  it  with  my  ears,  635 

Answer  it  with  my  lips  :  does  this  suffice  ? 

For  if  there  be  a  further  woe  than  such, 

Wherein  my  brothers  struggling  need  a  hand, 

So  long  as  any  pulse  is  left  in  mine, 

May  I  be  absent  even  longer  yet,  640 

Plucking  the  blind  ones  back  from  the  abyss, 

Though  I  should  tarry  a  new  hundred  years  ! " 

But  he  was  dead  :  'twas  about  noon,  the  day 

Somewhat  declining  :  we  five  buried  him 

That  eve,  and  then,  dividing,  went  five  ways,  645 

And  I,  disguised,  returned  to  Ephesus. 

By  this,  the  cave's  mouth  must  be  filled  with  sand. 

Valens  is  lost,  I  know  not  of  his  trace ; 

The  Bactrian  was  but  a  wild  childish  man, 

And  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but  only  loved  :  650 

So,  lest  the  memory  of  this  go  quite, 

Seeing  that  I  to-morrow  fight  the  beasts, 

I  tell  the  same  to  Phcebas,  whom  believe  ! 

For  many  look  again  to  find  that  face, 

Beloved  John's  to  whom  I  ministered,  655 

Somewhere  in  life  about  the  world  ;  they  err : 

Either  mistaking  what  was  darkly  spoke 

At  ending  of  his  book,  as  he  relates, 

Or  misconceiving  somewhat  of  this  speech 

Scattered  from  mouth  to  mouth,  as  I  suppose.  660 

652.   Pamphylax  tells  the  story  to  Phoebas,  on  the  eve  of  his  martyrdom. 
654-660.   See  Gospel  of  St.  John,  chap.  xxi.  20-24. 


358  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Believe  ye  will  not  see  him  any  more 
About  the  world  with  his  divine  regard  ! 
For  all  was  as  I  say,  and  now  the  man 
Lies  as  he  lay  once,  breast  to  breast  with  God. 


[Cerinthus  read  and  mused ;  one  added  this  :  —  665 

"  If  Christ,  as  thou  affirmest,  be  of  men 

Mere  man,  the  first  and  best  but  nothing  more,  — 

Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He  was, 

Now  and  forever,  wretchedest  of  all. 

For  see ;  Himself  conceived  of  life  as  love,  670 

Conceived  of  love  as  what  must  enter  in, 

Fill  up,  make  one  with  His  each  soul  He  loved : 

Thus  much  for  man's  joy,  all  men's  joy  for  Him. 

Well,  He  is  gone,  thou  sayest,  to  fit  reward. 

But  by  this  time  are  many  souls  set  free,  675 

And  very  many  still  retained  alive  : 

Nay,  should  His  coming  be  delayed  awhile, 

Say,  ten  years  longer  (twelve  years,  some  compute) 

See  if,  for  every  finger  of  thy  hands, 

662.  regard:  look. 

"  To  whom  thus  Michael,  with  regard  benign:  "  P.  L.,  XI.,  334. 
"  From  that  placid  aspect  and  meek  regard."  —  P.  R.,  III.,  217. 

De  Quincey  remarks  (Milton  vs.  Southey  and  Landor)  in  reply  to  Landor's 
demurring  that  "  meek  regard  conveys  no  new  idea  to  placid  aspect :  "  "But  aspect 
is  the  countenance  of  Christ  when  passive  to  the  gaze  of  others ;  regard  is  trie  same 
countenance  in  active  contemplation  of  those  others  whom  he  loves  or  pities.  The 
placid  aspect  expresses,  therefore,  the  divine  rest;  the  meek  regard  expresses  the 
divine  benignity ;  the  one  is  the  self-absorption  of  the  total  Godhead,  the  other 
the  external  emanation  of  the  Filial  Godhead." 

665.  Cerinthus  read  and  mused :  It  must  be  supposed  that  an  opportunity 
had  been  afforded  Cerinthus  of  reading  the  MS.  by  the  one  who  added  the  post- 
script, which  is  addressed  to  him,  and  who  sought  his  conversion. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


359 


There  be  not  found,  that  day  the  world  shall  end,  680 

Hundreds  of  souls,  each  holding  by  Christ's  word 

That  He  will  grow  incorporate  with  all, 

With  me  as  Pamphylax,  with  him  as  John, 

Groom  for  each  bride  !     Can  a  mere  man  do  this? 

Yet  Christ  saith,  this  He  lived  and  died  to  do.  685 

Call  Christ,  then,  the  illimitable  God, 

Or  lost ! " 

But  'twas  Cerinthus  that  is  lost.] 

683.  That  is,  With  me  as  with  Pamphylax,  with  him  as  with  John : 
See  Gospel  of  John,  xvii.  u,  21-23. 


"  In  the  critical  examination  of  the  evangelical  records,  the  fourth  Gospel  suffered 
most.  Strauss  —  in  this  instance  following  his  early  master  and  later  antagonist, 
Baur  —  denied  that  St.  John  had  anything  to  do  with  its  composition.  The  author, 
he  held,  was  neither  St.  John  nor  any  one  else  who  had  personally  known  Christ : 
nor,  in  accordance  with  a  widely  accepted  theory,  did  he  believe  it  to  be  the  work 
of  a  pupil  of  St.  John,  who,  after  the  death  of  his  master,  related,  from  memory  or 
from  fragmentary  notes,  traditions  and  sayings  which  had  been  taught  him,  and 
made  out  of  them  a  continuous  history.  Strauss  pronounced  it  to  be  a  controver- 
sial work,  written  late  in  the  second  century  after  Christ,  by  a  profound  theologian 
of  the  Greek  Gnostic  and  anti-Jewish  school,  whose  design  was  not  to  add  another 
to  the  existing  biographies  of  Christ,  not  to  represent  him  as  a  real  man,  nor 
to  give  an  account  of  any  human  life,  but  to  produce  an  elaborate  theological 
work  in  which,  under  the  veil  of  allegory,  the  Neo-platonic  conception  of  Christ  as 
the  Logos,  the  realized  Word  of  God,  the  divine  principle  of  light  and  life,  should 
be  developed.  With  this  purpose,  the  writer  made  a  free  selection  from  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  Christ  as  recorded  in  the  three  Gospels  already  written,  and  as 
freely  invented  others.  All  the  events,  all  the  words,  of  the  Gospel  thus  composed, 
are  subordinate  to  the  main  design,  which  was  worked  out  by  the  author  with  an 
artistic  completeness  most  ingeniously  traced  by  his  German  interpreters.  Each 
miracle. symbolizes  some  important  dogma,  and  its  narration  must  be  understood 
to  mean  that  it  embodies  some  deep  spiritual  truth,  not,  necessarily,  that  it  ever 
actually  took  place.  The  author  manifests,  throughout,  his  ignorance  of  Jewish 
customs,  and  his  antagonism  to  Jewish  sentiments." 

********** 
"  The  general  purport  of  the  poem  can  scarcely  be  doubted,  as  we  look  back 
upon  it  as  a  whole  and  consider  its  main  conclusions.    The  tendency  of  the  argu- 


360  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

ment  is  to  diminish  the  importance  of  the  original  events  —  historical  or  tradi- 
tional—  on  which  the  Christian  religion  is  based.  'It  is  not  worth  while,'  the 
writer  seems  to  say  to  Strauss  and  his  followers,  '  to  occupy  ourselves  with  discus- 
sions about  miracles  and  events  which  are  said  to  have  taken  place  a  long  time 
ago,  and  can  now  neither  be  denied  nor  proved.  What  we  are  concerned  with,  is, 
Christianity  as  it  is  now :  as  a  religion  which  the  human  mind  has  through  many 
generations  developed,  purified,  spiritualized ;  and  which  has  reacted  upon  human 
nature  and  made  it  wiser  and  nobler.  Shall  we  give  up  this  faith  which  has  been 
so  great  a  power  for  good  in  the  world,  and  which,  its  whole  past  history  justifies 
us  in  concluding,  will  continue  its  work  of  improvement,  because  our  belief  in  cer- 
tain events  is  shaken  or  destroyed?  It  would  be  vain,  indeed,  thus  to  build  our 
religion  on  a  foundation  so  unstable  as  material  evidence.  For  human  sensations 
are  not  infallible ;  they  very  often  deceive  us ;  we  think  we  see  objects,  which  are 
really  the  illusions  of  our  own  brain;  others  we  see  in  part  only,  or  distorted; 
others  we  fail  to  perceive  at  all.  Our  faith,  essential  as  it  is  to  the  well-being  of  the 
deepest  parts  of  our  nature,  must  not  be  dependent  on  such  controlling  powers  as 
these." 


"  He  [Browning]  was,  we  may  suppose,  offended  by  Strauss's  ruthless  attack 
on  much  that  mankind  has  held  sacred  for  ages.  His  religious  sense  was  revolted 
by  the  assumption  that  there  was  nothing  in  Christianity  which  could  survive  the 
destruction  of  the  miraculous  and  supernatural  elements  in  its  history.  He 
desired  to  represent  Christianity  as  an  entirely  spiritual  religion,  independent  of 
external,  material  agencies.  In  order  to  make  his  argument  as  powerful  as  possi- 
ble, he  chose  for  his  mouth-piece  one  of  the  personal  followers  of  Christ,  on  whom, 
it  might  be  supposed,  the  actual  human  life  of  his  master  had  made  a  permanent 
and  lively  impression.  With  the  details  of  Biblical  criticism  he  had  nothing  to  do ; 
his  principles  were  unaffected  by  discussions  about  the  authenticity  of  the  various 
parts  of  Gospels ;  so,  in  defiance  of  Strauss,  the  disciple  he  chose  was  that  very 
John,  whose  personality,  as  recognized  by  long  tradition,  had  been  so  much  dis- 
credited. He  showed  how  even  in  one  of  the  disciples  the  recollection  of  wonders 
and  signs  could  be  transcended,  and  at  last  obliterated,  by  a  spiritual  faith  which 
was  sustained  by  the  needs  and  faculties  of  the  soul.  The  poem  is,  in  effect,  an 
eloquent  protest  in  defence  of '  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge.'  " 

From  Mrs.  M.  G.  Glazebrook's  paper  on  '  A  Death  in  the  Desert}  read  before  the 
London  Browning  Society, 


A 'LIST   OF   CRITICISMS   OF   BROWNING'S 
WORKS. 

(Selected  from  Dr.  Frederick  J.  Furnivall's  '  Bibliography  of  Robert  Browning,' 
contained  in  'The  Browning  Society's  Papers,'  Part  I.,  with  additions  in  Part  II.) 

1833.  The  Monthly  Mag.,  N.  S.,  V.  7,  pp.  254-262:  Review  of  Pau- 
line, by  W.  J.  Fox. 

1835.  The  Examiner,  Sept.  6,  pp.  563-565:  on  Paracelsus,  by  John 
Forster. 

1835.  Monthly  Repository,  Nov.,  pp.  716-727:  Review  of  Paracelsus, 

byW.  J.  Fox. 

1836.  New  Monthly  Mag.,  March,  Vol.  46,  pp.  289-308:  'Evidences 

of  a  New  Genius  for  Dramatic  Poetry.  —  No.  i.1   On  Paracel- 
sus, by  John  Forster. 

1837.  Edinburgh  Rev.,  July,  Vol.  66,  pp.  132-151 :  Str afford. 

1848.  N.  A.  Rev.,  April,  Vol.  66,  pp.  357-400:  B.'s  Plays  and  Poems, 

by  James  Russell  Lowell. 

1849.  Eclectic  Rev.,  London,  4th  S.  V.  26,  pp.  203-214:  on   i.  the 

Poems,  2  vols.  1849,  and  2.  Sordello,  1840.  A  sympathetic  and 
excellent  review. 

1850.  Massachusetts  Quarterly  Rev.,  No.  XI.  June,  Art.  IV.  'Brown- 

ing's Poems.1     i.  Poems,  2  vols.,  Boston,  1850.     2.  Christmas 

Eve  and  Easter  Day,  London,  1850. 
1850.   Littell's  Living  Age,  Vol.  25,  pp.  403-409:  on  Christmas  Eve 

and  Easter  Day. 

1857.    The  Christian  Remembrancer,  N.  S.,  Vol.  39,  pp.  361-390. 
1861.  North  British  Rev.,  May,  pp.   350-374:  on  'The  Poems  and 
J  Plays  of  R.  B.,1  by  F.  H.  Evans. 

1863.   Eraser's  Mag.,  Feb.,  pp.  240-256. 
1863.   The  Eclectic  Rev.,  No.  23,  N.  S.,  May,  pp.  436-454. 
1863.   National  Rev.,  Oct.,  Vol.  47,  pp.  417-446.     Poetical  Works  of 

R.  B.,  3  vols.,  3d  ed.,  by  R.  H.  Hutton ;  republ.  in  Hutton's 

'Literary  Essays,  1871.' 


362  A    LIST  OF  CRITICISMS 

1864.  The  Eclectic  and  Congregational  Rev.,  July,  pp.  61-72  :  on  Dra- 
matis Persons,  by  E.  Paxton  Hood. 

1864.  Edinburgh  Rev.,  Oct.,  pp.  537-565:  on  Poems,  1863,  and  Dra- 
matis Persons,  1864. 

1864.  National  Rev.,  N.  S.,  Nov.,  1864;  Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and 

Browning ;   or  Pure,  Ornate,  and  Grotesque  Art  in  English 
Poetry ;  republ.  in  '  Literary  Studies,1  by  Walter  Bagshot. 

1865.  Quarterly  Rev.,  July,  Vol.  118,  pp.  77-105:  on  Dramatis  Per- 

sona, 1864,  and  Poems,  3  vols.,  1863. 

1867.  Contemporary  Rev.,  Jan.  and  Feb.,  1867,  Vol.  4,  pp.  1-15,  133- 
148.  Thoughtful  and  able  articles. 

1867.  Eraser's  Mag.,  Oct.,  pp.  518-530 :  Sordello,  by  Edward  Dowden. 

1868.  Athenaeum,  Dec.  26,  pp.  875,  876 :  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Vol.  i . 

by  Robert  Buchanan ;  revised  and  publ.  in  his  '  Master  Spir- 
its,' 1873. 

1868.  Eclectic  and  Congregational  Rev.,  Dec.,  Art.  II.  Poetical 
Works,  6  vols.,  1868,  by  E.  Paxton  Hood.  See  under  1864. 

1868.  Essays  on  B.'s  poetry,  by  J.  T.  Nettleship. 

1869.  Athenaeum,  March  20,  pp.  399,  400 :  on  The  Ring  and  the  Book, 

Vols.  2,  3,  and  4. 
1869.  Fortnightly  Rev.,  March,  Vol.  5,  N.  S.,  pp.  331-343 :  on  The 

Ring  and  the  Book,  by  John  Morley.    An  able  and  generous 

article. 
1869.   Quarterly  Rev.,  April,  pp.  328-359:  on  Mod.  Eng.  Poets;  a  few 

pages  are  on  B.'s  poems  and  The  Ring  and  the  Book. 
1869.  Edinburgh  Rev.,  July,  Vol.  130,  pp.  164-186:  on  The  Ring  and 

the  Book. 

1869.   London  Quarterly  Rev.,  July,  on  B.'s  Poetry  —  all  then  published. 
1869.  N.  Brit.  Rev.,  Oct.,  pp.  97-128:  B.'s  Latest  Poetry  (The  Ring 

and  the  Book). 
1871.   Saint  Paul's  Mag.,  Dec.,  1870,  and  Jan.,  1871,  Vol.  7,  pp.  257- 

276,  377-397  '•  Poems  and  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  by  E.  J. 

Hasell. 

1871.   Athenaeum,  Aug.  12,  pp.  199,  200 :  on  Balaustion's  Adventure. 
1871.   Contemporary  Rev.,  Sept.,  pp.  284-296,  on  Balaustion's  Adven- 
ture, by  Matthew  Browne  (pseudonym). 

1871.   The  Times,  Oct.  6:  a  long  review  of  Balaustion's  Ad-venture. 
1871.    'Our  Living  Poets:    an  Essay  in  Criticism.'     By  H.   Buxton 

Forman.     4th  chap,  on  B.,  pp.  103-152, 


OF  BROWNING'S   WORKS.  363 

1871.   Fortnightly  Rev.,  Oct.,  Vol.  10,  N.  S.,  pp.  478-490:  on  Balaus- 
tiorfs  Adventure,  by  Sidney  Colvin. 

1871.  The  Dark  Blue  Mag.,  Oct.  and  Nov.,  Vol.  2,  pp.  171-184,  305- 

319:  'Browning  as  a  Preacher,1  by  Miss  E.  Dickinson  West. 
An  admirable  essay. 

1872.  Edinburgh  Rev.,  Jan.,  Vol.  135,  pp.  221-249:  on  Balaustion's 

Adventure. 
1872.   Academy,  Jan.  1 5  :  on  Hohenstiel-Schwangau. 

1872.  Academy,  July  i  :  on  Fifine  at  the  Fair,  by  F.  Wedmore. 

1873.  Athenaeum,  May  10:  on  Red  Cotton  Night-Cap  Country. 

1873.   Academy,  June  2  :  on  Red  Cotton  Night-Cap  Country,  by  G.  A.. 

Simcox. 
1873.   'Master  Spirits,1  by  Robert  Buchanan;  contains,  pp.  89-109,  a 

revised  reprint  of  the  Athenaeum  reviews  of  The  Ring  and  the 

Book,  Dec.,  1869,  and  March,  1870. 
1875.   Academy,  April  17:  on  Aristophanes*  Apology,   by  J.  A.  Sy- 

monds. 
1875.   Athenasum,  April  17,  pp.  513,  514:  on  Aristophanes'  Apology. 

1875.  Athenaeum,  Nov.  27,  pp.  701,  702 :  on  The  Inn  Album. 

1876.  Academy,  July  29:  on  Pacchiarotto,  by  Edward  Dowden. 
1876.   Macmillan's  Mag.,  Feb.,  Vol.  33,  pp.  347-354:  on  Inn  Album,  by 

A.  C.  Bradley. 

1876.  'Victorian  Poets.      By  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.'     Boston: 

1876.    Chap.  IX.,  pp.  292-341,  devoted  to  Browning. 

1877.  Academy,  Nov.  3:  on  The  Agamemnon  of  sEschylus,  by  J.  A. 

Symonds. 

1878.  Church  Quarterly  Rev.,  Oct.,  pp.  65-92:  on  B.'s  Poems,  by  the 

Hon.  and  Rev.  Arthur  Lyttleton.  An  article  to  be  read  by  all 
students  of  Browning. 

1878.   Academy,  June  i :  on  La  Saisiaz,  and  The  Tivo  Poets  of  Croisic, 
by  G.  A.  Simcox. 

1878.  Athenaeum,  May  25,  pp.  661-664 :  on  La  Saisias,  by  W.  Theodore 

Watts. 

1879.  'Studies  in  Literature,  1789-1877.     By  Edward  Dowden,  LL.D.' 

London:  C.  Kegan  Paul  &  Co.,  pp.  191-239:  'Mr.  Tennyson 
and  Mr.  Browning.  A  comparative  study.'  Ranks  with  the 
very  best  of  Browning  criticisms. 

1879.   Athenaeum,  May  10:  on  Dramatic  Idyls,  I.,  by  Walter  Theodore 
Watts. 


364  A  LIST  OF  CRITICISMS 

1879.  Academy,  May  10:  on  Dramatic  Idyls,  I.,  by  F.  Wedmore. 

1880.  Athenaeum,  July  10,  pp.  39-41 :  on  Dramatic  fdyls,  2d  S.,  by  W. 

Th.  Watts. 

1881.  Gentleman's  Mag.,  Dec.,  pp.  682-695  :  on  The  Ring  and  the  Book, 

by  James  Thomson. 
1881.    Scribner's  Century  Mag.,  Dec.   I,  pp.  189-200:  on  '  The  Early 

Writings  of  R.  B.,'  by  E.  W.  Gosse. 
1881.   The  Cambridge  Review,  Dec.  7,  Vol.  3,  pp.  146,  147:  a  review 

of  Rabbi  ben  Ezra  and  Abt  Vogler,  by  A.  W. 

Some  of  the  most  valuable  criticism  of  Browning's  Poetry  has 
been  produced  and  published  by  The  Browning  Society  of  Lon- 
don, founded  in  1881  by  Dr.  F.  J.  Furnivall,  and  still  in  active 
operation.  Dr.  Furnivall's  '  Bibliography  of  Robert  Browning,' 
occupying  Part  I.  of '  The  Browning  Society's  Papers,'  and  contin- 
ued in  Part  II.,  is  a  storehouse  of  valuable  information,  of  all  kinds, 
pertaining  to  Browning's  Poetry,  and  to  Browning  the  man.  Every 
Browning  student  should  possess  a  copy  of  it.  The  following 
papers,  among  others,  have  been  published  by  the  Society  :  — 

Introductory  Address  to  the  Browning  Society.  By  the  Rev.  J.  Kirk- 
man,  M.A.,  Queen's  Coll.,  Cambridge,  Oct.  28,  1881. 

On  '  Pietro  of  Abano '  and  the  leading  ideas  of  '  Dramatic  Idyls,1  sec- 
ond series,  1880.  By  the  Rev.  J.  Sharpe,  M.A.  Read  Nov.  25, 
1881. 

On  Browning's  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair.'  By  J.  T.  Nettleship,  Esq.  Read 
•  Feb.  24,  1882. 

Notes  on  the  Genius  of  Robert  Browning.  By  James  Thomson.  Read 
Jan.  27,  1882. 

Browning's  Philosophy.  By  John  Bury,  Trin.  Coll.,  Dublin.  Read 
April  28,  1882. 

On  '  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology.1  By  the  Rev.  Prof.  E.  Johnson,  M.A. 
Read  May  26,  1882. 

The  Idea  of  Personality,  as  embodied  in  Robert  Browning's  Poetry. 
By  Prof.  Hiram  Corson,  LL.D.,  Cornell  University.  Read  June 
23,  1882.  (Contained  in  this  volume.) 

The  Religious  Teaching  of  Browning.  By  Dorothea  Beale.  Read 
Oct.  27,  1882. 


OF  BROWNING'S  WORKS.  365 

An  Account  of  Abbe'  Vogler.  (From  Fe"tis  &  Nisard.)  By  Miss  Elea- 
nor Marx. 

Conscience  and  Art  in  Browning.     By  the  Rev.  Prof.  E.  Johnson,  M.A. 
Browning's  Intuition,  specially  in  regard  of  Music  and  the  Plastic  Arts. 

By  J.  T.  Nettleship.     Read  Feb..  23,  1883. 
On  some  Points  in  Browning's  View  of  Life.     By  the  Rev.  Prof.  B.  F. 

Westcott,  D.D.     Read  before  the  Cambridge  Browning  Soc.,  Nov., 

1882. 
One  aspect  of  Browning's  Villains.     By  Miss  E.  D.  West.     Read  April 

27,  1883. 
Browning's  Poems  on  God  and  Immortality  as  bearing  on  life  here. 

By  William  F.  Revell.     Read  March  30,  1883. 
James  Lee's  Wife.     By  Rev.  J.  H.  Bulkeley.     Read  May  25,  1883. 
Abt  Vogler.     By  Mrs.  Turnbull.     Read  June  22,  1883. 
On  some  prominent  points  of  Browning's  teaching.    By  W.  A.  Raleigh, 

Esq.,  of  King's  College,  Cambridge.     Read  Feb.  22,  1884. 
'  Caliban  upon  Setebos,'  with  some  notes  on  Browning's  subtlety  and 

humor.     By  J.  Cotter  Morison,  Esq.     Read  April  25,  1884. 
In  a  Balcony.     By  Mrs.  Turnbull.     Read  July  4,  1884. 
On  '  Mr.  Sludge   the   Medium.'      By  Edwin  Johnson,  M.A.      Read 

March  27,  1885. 
Browning  as  a  Scientific  Poet.     By  Edward  Berdoe,  M.R.C.S.  (Eng.), 

L.R.C.P.  (Ed.).    Read  April  24,  1885. 
On  the  development  of  Browning's  genius  in  his  capacity  as  Poet  or 

Maker.     By  J.  T.  Nettleship,  Esq.     Read  Oct.  30,  1885. 
On  'Aristophanes'  Apology.'      By  John  B.  Bury,   B.A.,  Trin.  Coll., 

Dublin.     Read  Jan.  29,  1886. 

Andrea  Del  Sarto.     By  Albert  Fleming.     Read  Feb.  26,  1886. 
The  reasonable  rhythm  of  some  of  Browning's  Poems.     By  the  Rev. 

H.  J.  Bulkeley,  M.A.     Read  May  28,  1886. 

The  following  works  should  be  mentioned  :  — 

Stories  from  Robert  Browning.  By  Frederic  May  Holland.  With  an 
Introduction  by  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr.  London:  1882. 

Strafford  :  a  Tragedy.  By  Robert  Browning.  With  notes  and  preface  by 
Emily  H.  Hickey  [First  Hon.  Sec.  of  the  Browning  Society].  And 
an  Introduction  by  Samuel  R.  Gardiner,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Mod- 
ern History,  King's  College,  London.  London:  1884. 


366  A  LIST  OF  CRITICISMS 

A  Handbook  to  the  works  of  Robert  Browning.     By  Mrs.  Sutherland 

Orr.     London:   1885.     A  good  reference  book. 
Poets  and  Problems.     By  George  Willis  Cooke.     Boston:    1886.     pp. 

269-388  devoted  to  Browning. 
Essays  on  Poetry  and  Poets.     By^the  Hon.  Roden  Noel.     London : 

1886.     pp.  256-282  devoted  to  Browning. 
Select  Poems  of  Robert  Browning.     By  W.  J.  Rolfe.     Boston. 

Important  works  published  since  the  first  edition  of  this  book  :  — 

Sordello's  Story  retold  in  prose.     By  Annie  Wall.     Boston  and  New 

York:   1886. 
Browning's  Women.     By  Mary  E.    Burt.     With  an  introduction  by 

Rev.  Edward  Everett  Hale,  D.D.,  LL.D.     Chicago:   1887. 
Studies  in  the  Poetry  of  Robert  Browning.     By  James  Fotheringham. 

London:   1887. 
An  Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of  Robert  Browning.     By  William  John 

Alexander,  Ph.D.     Boston  :   1889. 
Sordello:    an  outline  analysis  of  Mr.  Browning's  poem.      By  Jeanie 

Morison.     Edinburgh  and  London  :   1889. 
Robert  Browning  Personalia.     By  Edmund  Gosse.     Boston  and  New 

York:  1890. 
Robert  Browning:    Essays  and  Thoughts.      By  John  T.  Nettleship. 

New  York:   1890. 
Browning's  Message  to  his  Time :  his  Religion,  Philosophy,  and  Science. 

By  Edward  Berdoe.     London  :   1890. 
A  Guide-Book  to  the  poetic  and  dramatic  works  of  Robert  Browning. 

By  George  Willis  Cooke.     Boston:   1891. 

Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Browning.     By  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr.     Bos- 
ton: 1891. 
Browning  as  a  philosophical  and  religious  teacher.     By  Henry  Jones, 

M.A.     New  York:   1891. 

Some  additional  papers  of  the  Browning  Society,  published  since 
the  first  edition  of  this  book  :  — 

"  A  Death  in  the  Desert."  By  Mrs.  M.  G.  Glazebrook.  Read  Feb- 
ruary 25,  1887. 

Some  Notes  on  Browning's  poems  referring  to  music.  By  Helen  J. 
Ormerod.  Read  May  27,  1887. 


OF  BROWNINGS   WORKS.  367 

"  Saul."     By  Anna  M.  Stoddart.     Read  May  25,  1888. 

Andrea  del  Sarto  and  Abt  Vogler.     By  Helen  J.  Ormerod.      Read 

November  30,  1888. 

La  Saisiaz.     By  Rev.  W.  Robertson.     Read  January  25,  1889. 
On  the  difficulties  and  obscurities  encountered  in  a  study  of  Browning's 

poems.      By  James  Bertram  Oldham,   B.A.      Read  February  22, 

1889. 
Taurello  Salinguerra :  historical  details  illustrative  of  Browning's  Sor- 

dello.     Muratori  and  Browning  compared.     By  W.  M.  Rossetti. 

Read  November  29,  1889. 
The  value  of  Browning's  work.     By  William  F.  Revell.     Read  May  30, 

1890. 

The  student  will  find  much  other  valuable  material  in  the 
Browning  Society  papers. 

For  Articles  in  Periodical  Literature,  the  student  should  con- 
sult Poole's  Indexes. 


MESSWO«K     BY     BERWICK    4    SMITH,    801TOH. 


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improved  form,  with  seventeen  slides  and  a  copy  of  "  How    TO   FIND  THE  STARS,"  $4.50 
"  How  TO  FIND  THE  STARS,"  separately.     Paper.     47  pages.     Price  15  cts. 


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ELEMENTARY  SCIENCE. 


By  GEO.  RICKS,  Inspector  of  Schools,  London  School  Board.     Cloth.      352  pages.     Re- 
tail price,  1.50. 


History    Object    LeSSOnS.     A  Manual  for  Teachers. 
ICKS,  Inspector  of  Schools,  L 

Guides  for  Science-  Teaching. 

Published  under  the  auspices  of  the  Boston  Society  of  Natural  History.  For 
teachers  who  desire  to  practically  instruct  classes  in  Natural  History,  and  designed  to  supply 
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Paper. 

I.     HYATT'S  ABOUT  PEBBLES,  10  cts.  VIII.     HYATT'S  INSECTS. 

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cts.  ROCKS,  40  cts.     Cloth,  60  cts. 

III.  HYATT'S  SPONGES,  20  cents.  XIII.     RICHARDS'  FIRST  LESSONS  IN  MIN- 

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HISTORY,  25  cts.  XIV.     BOWDITCH'S  HINTS  FOR  TEACHERS 

V.  HYATT'S  CORAL  AND  ECHINODERMS,  ON  PHYSIOLOGY,  20  cts. 

30  cts.  XV.    CLAPP'S  OBSERVATIONS  ON  COMMON 

VI.  HYATT'S  MOLLUSCA,  30  cts.  MINERALS,  30  cts. 
VII.    HYATT'S  WORMS  AND  CRUSTACEA, 

30  cts. 

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Paper.    48  pages,  ruled  and  printed.     Price,  15  cents. 

Science  Teaching  in  the  Schools. 

By  WM.  N.  RICE,  Prof,  of  Geology,  Wesleyan  Univ.,  Conn.    Paper.   46  pp.    Price,  86  cts. 

Elementary  Course  in  Practical  Zoology. 

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First  Book  of  Geology. 

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The  Teaching  of  Geology. 

By  N.  S.  SHALER,  author  of  First  Book  in  Geology.     Paper.     74  pages.     Price,  25  cents. 

Astronomical  Lantern  and  How  to  Find  the  Stars. 

By  REV.  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE.  Intended  to  familiarize  students  with  the  constel- 
lations, by  comparing  them  with  fac-similes  on  the  lantern  face.  Price  of  the  Lantern,  i» 
improved  form,  with  seventeen  slides  and  a  copy  of  "How  TO  FIND  THE  STARS,"  $4.  50 
"  How  TO  FIND  THE  STARS,"  separately.  Paper.  47  pages.  Price  15  cts. 

Studies  in  Nature  and  Language  Lessons, 

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H I  STORY. 


Sheldon's  General  History.  For  high  school  and  college.  The  only  history  fol- 
lowing the  "seminary"  or  laboratory  plan  now  advocated  by  all  leading  teachers. 
Price,  #1.60. 

Sheldon's  Greek  and  Roman  History.  Contains  the  first  250  pages  of  the 
above  book.  Price,  $1.00. 

Teacher's  Manual  to  Sheldon's  History.  Puts  into  the  instructor's  hand  the 
key  to  the  above  system.  Price,  80  cents 

Sheldon's  Aids  to  the  Teaching  of  General  History.  Gives  list  of  essen- 
tial books  for  reference  library.  Price,  10  cents. 

Bridgman's  Ten  Year's  of  Massachusetts.  Pictures  the  development  of  the 
Commonwealth  as  seen  in  its  laws.  Price,  75  cents. 

Shumway's  A  Day  in  Ancient  Rome.  With  59  illustrations.  Should  find  a 
place  as  a  supplementary  reader  in  every  high  school  class  studying  Cicero,  Horace, 
Tacitus,  etc.  Price,  75  cents. 

Old  South  Leaflets  on  U.  S.  History.  Reproductions  of  important  political 
and  historical  papers,  accompanied  by  useful  notes.  Price,  5  cents  each.  Per  hun- 
dred, $3.00. 

This  general  series  of  Old  South  Leaflets  now  includes  the  following  subjects :  The 
Constitution  of  the  United  States,  The  Articles  of  Confederation,  The  Declaration  of 
Independence,  Washington's  Farewell  Address,  Magna  Charta,  Vane's  "  Healing  Ques- 
tion," Charter  of  Massachusetts  Bay,  1629,  Fundamental  Orders  of  Connecticut,  1638, 
Franklin's  Plan  of  Union,  1754,  Washington's  Inaugurals,  Lincoln's  Inaugurals  and 
Emancipation  Proclamation,  The  Federalist,  Nos.  i  and  2,  The  Ordinance  of  1787, 
The  Constitution  of  Ohio,  Washington's  Letter  to  Benjamin  Harrison,  Washington's 
Circular  Letter  to  the  Governors. 

Allen's  History  Topics.  Covers  Ancient,  Modern,  and  American  history,  and  gives 
an  excellent  list  of  books  of  reference.  Price,  25  cents. 

Fisher's  Select  Bibliog1.  of  Ecclesiastical  History.  An  annotated  list  of 
the  most  essential  books  for  a  Theological  studen't  library.  Price,  15  cents. 

Hall's  Methods  Of  Teaching  History.     "  Its  excellence  and  helpfulness  ought 

to  secure  it  many  readers."  —  The  Nation.     Price,  $1.30. 
Wilson'8  the  State.     Elements  of   Historical  and   Practical  Politics.     A  text-book 

for  advanced  classes  in  high  schools  and  colleges  on  the  organization  and  functions  ol 

governments.     /« Prtss. 

D.  C.  HEATH  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

BOSTON,  NEW  YORK  AND  CHICAGO. 


Why  should  Teacher s 


the  Literature 
yf  tbeir  Profession  ? 

no  man  can  stand  high  in  any  profession  who   is  not  familiar 
with  its  history  and  literature. 

it  saoes  time  which  might  be  wasted  in  trying  experiments  that 
have  already  been  tried  and  found  useless. 

Compayre'S  History  Of  Pedagogy.  "  The  best  and  most  comprehensive 

history  of  Education  in  English."  —  Dr.  G.  S.  HALL. $'-75 

Compayre'S  Lectures  on  Teaching.  "  The  best  book  in  existence  on 

the  theory  and  practice  of  Education."  —  Supt.  MACALLISTER,  Philadelphia.  .  1.75 

Gill's  System  Of  Education.  "It  treats  ably  of  the  Lancaster  and  Bell 

movement  in  Education  —  a  very  important  phase."  —  Dr.  W.  T.  HARRIS.  .  1.25 

RadestOCk'S  Habit  in  Education.  "  It  will  prove  a  rare  '  find  '  to  teach- 
ers who  are  seeking  to  ground  themselves  in  the  philosophy  of  their  art."  — 
E.  H.  RUSSELL,  Worcester  Normal 0.75 

Rousseau's  Emile.  "  Perhaps  the  most  influential  txxjk  ever  written  on  the 

subject  of  Education."  —  R.  H.  QUICK 0.90 

Pestalozzi's  Leonard  and  Gertrude.  "  If  we  except '  Emile '  only,  no 
more  important  educational  book  has  appeared,  for  a  century  and  a  half,  than 
'  Leonard  and  Gertrude.'  "  —  The  Nation. 0.90 

Richter's  Levana,  or  the  Doctrine  of  Education.  "A  spirited 

and  scholarly  book."  —  Prof.  W.  H.  PAYNE 1.40 

Rosmini'S  Method  in  Education.  "  The  most  important  pedagogical 

work  ever  written."  —  THOMAS  DAVIDSON 1.50 

Malleson's  Early  Training  of  Children.  "  The  best  book  for  mothers 

I  ever  read."  —  ELIZABETH  P.  PEABODY. 0.75 

Hall's  Bibliography  of  Pedagogical   Literature.    Covers  every 

department  of  Education 1.50 

Peabody's  Home,  Kindergarten  and  Primary  School  Educa- 
tion. "The  best  book  outside  of  the  Bible  I  ever  read."  —  A  LEADING 
TEACHER i.oo 

Newsholme'S  School  Hygiene.  Already  in  use  in  the  leading  training 

colleges  in  England 0.75 

DeGarmo's  Essentials  of  Method.  "  It  has  as  much  sound  thought  to 
the  square  inch  as  anything  I  know  of  in  pedagogics."  —  Supt.  BALLIET, 
Springfield,  Mass. 0.65 

Hall's  Methods  Of  Teaching  History.  "  Its  excellence  and  helpful- 
ness ought  to  secure  it  many  readers." —  The  Nation 1.50 

Seidel'S  Industrial  Education.  "It  answers  triumphantly  all  objections 
to  the  introduction  of  manual  training  to  the  public  schools."  —  CHARLES  H. 
HAM,  Chicago 0.90 

Badlam's  Suggestive  Lessons  on  Language  and  Reading. 
"  The  book  is  all  that  it  claims  to  be  and  more.  It  abounds  in  material  that 
will  be  of  service  to  the  progressive  teacher."  —  Supt.  DUTTON,  New  Haven.  1.50 

Redway's  Teachers'  Manual  of  Geography.  "  Its  hints  to  teachers 
are  invaluable,  while  its  chapters  on  '  Modern  Facts  and  Ancient  Fancies  '  will 
be  a  revelation  to  many." — ALEX.  E.  FRYB,  Author  of  "The  Child  in 
Nature." 0.65 

Nicbols'  Topics  in  Geography.  "Contains  excellent  hints  and  sug- 
gestions of  incalculable  aid  to  school  teachers." —  Oakland  (Col.)  Tribune.  .  0.65 


D.  C.  HEATH  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

BOSTON,    NEW  YORK  AND  CHICAGO. 


AUG  0  2  1985 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  INU    » 


000560809 


